
TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW 



BY 



EDWARD TV. POMEROY 




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TODAY AND TOMORROW 



TODAY AND 
TOMORROW 



BY 

EDWARD N. POMEROY 




BOSTON 

SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 



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Copyright, 1920 
Bt small, MAYNARD & COMPANY 

(INCOBPOBATHO) 



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CI,A570450 

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This book is affectionately dedicated to my Mother, 



I wish to acknowledge the courtesy of the editors of 
the following magazines and papers, in making it pos- 
sible for me to publish this volume of my father's 
poems, by allowing me to reprint the poems which have 
appeared in their publications: The Atlantic Monthly ^ 
The Boston Transcripty The Century, The Congregational-' 
ist. The Independent, Scribner^s, The Springfield Repub- 
lican and The Youth's Companion. 

Gertrude A. Pomeroy. 



CONTENTS 

FAQK 

Today and Tomorrow 3 

My Love 5 

Outward Bound 7 

Memorial Day 9 

The Chess-Players 14 

The Grave- Yard at Sippican 15 

The Blacksmith of Sippican 17 

The Watch Below 23 

Sonnet to a Rejected Poem 27 

My Neighbor of Yesterday 28 

The Point of View 30 

The Singer 32 

On the Shelf 34 

Tom Reed's School Days 37 

The Queen of Tompkins Square 41 

The Old Sea Captain 44 

Another Day 47 

In the Gloaming 49 

Hail and Farewell 50 

The Hour 52 

The Man 53 

The Oilman House 54 

The Old Saint 57 

The Hunnewell Gardens 58 

The Girl That Stole My Heart Away .... 60 

My White-Capped Nurse 64 



rAOB 

Sippican 65 

At the Beautiful Gate 68 

The Butterfly 70 

Dearest One 72 

The Desire to Depart 74 

Waban Mere 76 

ToTorquatus 79 

The Lily Pond 81 

Old and Young 83 

TheDerehct 85 

The Foreside Meeting House ...... 87 

Deborah York 89 

The Sleeping Soldier 92 

The City of My Youth . 94 

Chastening 96 

The Heart of Ocean 99 

Our Years 102 

The Old Church on the Hill 104 

"The Old Church on the Hill" 106 

The Phantom Coasters 108 

Ducky Daddies 109 

The Haunted Ruin Ill 

At Simon's House 115 

ToDellius 117 

Beneath the Pine 119 

Edith 122 

Consolation 124 

Heaven 126 

Lieutenant Adolphus W. Greeley 128 

At Bread Loaf Inn 129 

The Brook 132 

The Lake of the Lost Pleiad 133 

Sea Sorrow 135 

Tennyson 138 

The Wellesley Float 139 



VAGB 

Autumnal Leaves 141 

The Old Ship-Yard 142 

Mary 144 

Tis Unavailing Now 147 

Garfield 151 

Joe . 152 

You and I 154 

Eleonora 156 

Tears for the Dead 159 

Arthur 161 

The Land of Beulah 162 

At a Dog's Resting-Place 164 

Pulvis Et Umbra 166 

Walter 168 

The Child-AngeFs Return 170 

To an Old Sermon 173 

Grant 177 

An Easter Vision 178 

At the Entrance to the Wellesley College Grounds 180 

To the Memory of an Old Man 181 

Forecast 184 

The Old Worldling 186 

To a Wanderer 188 

To a Child in Heaven 189 

The Many Mansions 190 

To a Pressed Flower 192 

His Monument 194 

Finis 195 



TODAY AND TOMORROW 



TODAY AND TOMORROW 

Witlihold all eulogies when I am dead. 

All noisy sorrow; 
Give me the tender word today, instead 

Of tears tomorrow. 



Come not with flowers to strew above my breast, 

And sigh for me there. 
The hawk or crow may haunt the piny crest; 

I shall not be there. 



Speak not my name, when I have passed from earth. 

In tones of sadness; 
At thought of me repress no note of mirth, 

No burst of gladness. 



Regard me not as altered when removed 

To the hereafter; 
Think of me still as loving and as loved 

With joy and laughter. 

3 



TODAY AND TOMORROW 

Delay not, thou whom I have wounded sore, 

Till thou outlive me 
To grant the pardon that I here implore, 

But now forgive me. 

Pretend not that I merit saintly fame; 

Let mercy save me; 
Sufficient for my epitaph the name 

My mother gave me. 



MY LOVE 

My love, she is no longer young; 

Her hair is ringed with gray; 
The grace that to her figure clung 

Does not remain today. 

Her step is not so light as erst; 

Her cheek is paler grown; 
Her hand is thinner than when first 

It lay within my own. 

One slender finger holds in ward 

Our union's token fair; 
Then close it clung, but now a guard 

Confines the circlet there. 

Her eyes with tender love are lit; 

They gaze upon me now; 
The signature of care is writ 

In wrinkles on her brow. 

Four times has heaven enriched our goods 
With treasure from the skies; 

And thrice has grief unlocked its floods 
And drowned her gentle eyes. 

5 



MY LOVE 

Her heart is an unfathomed spring 
Whose depths all tears receive; 
"She loves me best whene'er I sing 
The songs that make her grieve." 

Her peaceful brow contains no trace 

Of passion-conflict striven; 
A purer flame has filled her face — 

The effluence of heaven. 

For there her fancies often roam. 
And there she fain would be 

What time her thoughts are of the home 
Of those she longs to see. 

I hear them in her voice, in truth 

I see them in her eyes; 
My love, she wears with fadeless youth, 

The grace of Paradise. 



6 



OUTWARD BOUND 

Oh, homeward bound's a welcome sound. 

But outward bound are we. 
With swelhng gale and rending sail 

And rush of roaring sea. 



We leave behind the chasing wind. 
We leave behind the shore. 

And roof and tree sink in the sea, 
Perhaps to rise no more. 



We said farewell, and tears that fell 

Were quickly brushed away; 
But homeward bound who hears the sound 

Of children at their play. 



And song of wife above the strife 

Of breakers on the lee. 
May find a grave beneath the wave. 

And not his family. 

7 



OUTWARD BOUND 

Ay, outward bound's a noble sound. 

The sea's a noble host; 
And they who hear his bluffest cheer 

Are they who love him most. 

We tread the deck, and little reck 

The wild cloud in the sky; 
Whatever may call, whate'er befall. 

We're here to do and die. 

We never shrink, though heaven be ink. 

And ocean's waste be snow; 
With good sea-room we court the gloom. 

And all the gales that blow. 

Our sails are set in shine and wet; 

Our hearts from grief we keep. 
Like gulls we roam from foam to foam, 

Our home the homeless deep. 

Oh, homeward bound's a welcome sound. 

But outward bound are we, 
Till, voyaging o'er, we touch the shore 

Of death's uncharted sea. 



8 



MEMORIAL DAY 

Again it is Memorial Day 

How sweet and sad the hours 
While love and grief are holding sway, 
And turf that covers sacred clay 
We decorate with flowers. 

The memory of comrades brave 

We meet to celebrate; 
Who fought and bled the State to save, 
Who died to liberate the slave. 

Nor dreamed their deed was great. 

But they deserve a patriot's name 

And immortality; 
And deeds as great for them we claim, 
As lifted Salamis to fame 

And proud Thermopylae. 

But yesterday and they were here; 

Their tide of life ran high; 
Well we recall their ringing cheer, 
Their answer, as a clarion clear. 

Their last, not sad, good by, 

9 



MEMORIAL DAY 

Fearless with us they went away 

Expecting to return; 
And while the drum and bugle play, 
Reviving memories of that day. 

Old fires within us burn. 

The vanished past returns again; 

The present is a dream; 
Our shrunken ranks are full as then; 
These scattered ashes, armed men 

Whose bristling bayonets gleam. 

We live our army lives once more; 

Beneath heaven's tent we dwell; 
The leaden rain begins to pour, 
The hungry guns to growl and roar. 

While scream the shot and shell. 

Again we're on a field of slain, 
And grieving stars look down; 

Silenced is every wall of pain; 

The battle's tide has ebbed amain, 
Whose flow high hopes did drown. 

Again we hear the long-roll beat, 
The quick command "fall in," 
Again we breast the deadly sleet. 
Again the foeman's onset meet, 
Sustain the shock and win. 

10 



MEMORIAL DAY 

But friends, this is the nation's day 

To honor all the brave, 
To interblend the *'blue" and "gray," 
And deck them with the bloom of May, 

For Hate is in its grave. 

The barbarous days of war are done; 

Peace broodeth like a dove; 
Conflict with self is but begun; 
Let greater victories here be won. 

Let us forgive and love; 

In spite of wrong we suffered then, — 

Fort Pillow's cruel guile, 
And Georgia's monstrous prison-pen 
That loathsome creatures made of men. 

And "Libby" and "Belle Isle." 

The Union saved and Slavery dead ! 

What could we ask beside? 
For these fair Liberty had pled, 
For these Humanity had bled. 

For these great Lincoln died. 

Brothers, our lives are in the past. 

Yet we have no regret; 
For, though our ranks are thinning fast 
And praise did not its day outlast, 

The flag is flying yet; 

11 



MEMORIAL DAY 

It flies above the Capitol, 
And o'er the soldier's grave; 

It floats o'er Sumter's crumbling wall; 

It waves throughout the nation-all — 
Forever may it wave; 

May this observance never cease; 

May words like these be said, 
Till the impatient years' increase 
Brings the Millenium of Peace, 

And War and Wrong are dead. 

Brothers, our sun is sinking low; 

The western twilight nears; 
Our faces men soon will not know. 
Already we can hear the flow 

Of the Eternal Years. 

No fame is ours; men have forgot. 

Or seldom call to mind. 
The soldiers screened from deadly shot. 
Nor care we, for it matters not 

Who fame or favor find. 

The Hand that held us in our place. 

The Everlasting Arms, 
That parted us from death's embrace. 
The God that kept us by His grace 

Will shield us still from harm; 

12 



MEMORIAL DAY 

And, by and by, it may be, some 
With wreaths and garlands gay. 
And sweet- voiced fife and stirring drum. 
To crown our grassy graves will come 
On Decoration Day. 



13 



THE CHESS-PLAYERS 

The clock, unheeded, peals the midnight hour; 

The house is mute, the light is waxen dim : 
Whose is the wand, and whence the magic power 

That these has smitten with enchantment grim? 

The pigmy figures on the painted squares. 
Silent as cloistered friars on their knees 

Whom death transmutes to marble at their prayers, 
Seem not more stiff and statuelike than these. 

With hearts of champions charging in the lists, 
Whose lances crumble as they crash and fall; 

With nerves of boxers pounding with their fists; 
There is no movement; it is semblance all. 

Save that, at intervals, a hand outstretched 
Beckons a charge or signals a retreat; 

Or, from the depths whence plots malign are fetched. 
Issues the interdict that seals defeat. 

The mimic battle has been lost and won; 

The spacious night has shrunken to a span; 
The world is lifted from oblivion, 

And each automaton becomes a man, 

14 



THE GRAVE- YARD AT SIPPICAN 

Come to this spot among the rocks and pines, — 
This hidden acre thou hadst ne'er beheld 

Unless persuaded by a poet's lines. 

Or by the circumstance of death compelled. 



The summer suns pour down their fervid heat 
On stunted herbage and a sterile soil : 

The storms of winter hurl their stinging sleet, 
And the hurt trees in agony recoil. 



These modest monuments no great names bear; 

Thou tread'st not, traveler, on a hero here; 
Yet these were strong to do and brave to dare. 

And filled their places on the busy sphere. 



They and the sea were surely kith and kin. 

And o'er these graves, although they never stop. 

Marauding sea-fogs that come driving in, 
A tribute from their salty plunder drop. 

15 



THE GRAVE-YARD AT SIPPICAN 

Near this lone nook their labor was not done: 

Through calms and storms, from port to port they 
ran: 

Or from the tropic to the frozen zone 
They sought and slaughtered the leviathan. 

Their virtues or their vices who shall tell, 

Or what their harbor since life's sails were furled ! 

Remote from strife and tumult they sleep well 
"Here at the quiet limit of the world." 

Such simple histories deep lessons teach, — 

Who seeketh wisdom let him pause and learn, — 

That in His plan God hath remembered each, 
And each He satisfieth in his turn : 

That death, relentless, still is not unkind. 
The vexed and weary to compel to rest; 

Nor mother earth in her affection blind 
To call her crying children to her breast. 



16 



THE BLACKSMITH OF SIPPICAN 

Search not the map, curious man, 
To find the town of Sippican, 
But Hsten while my verses bound it 
And tell the regions lying round it. 
Northward is Rochester's fair land, 
With roads and people famed for sand; 
And southward, stretching far away, 
The windy wastes of Buzzards Bay; 
While east and west the silence broods 
O'er Mattapoisett's piny woods 
And Weweantit's briny floods. 

In recent days the quaint old town 
Has gained a highly prized renown; 
For hither comes a lady true 
As age of chivalry e'er knew — 
One who commands without command, 
The first and fairest of the land. 
And here, like her, in summer time. 
Come those who write in prose and rhyme; 
Statesmen and sages, brawn and brain; 
And pleasure's gay and giddy train — 

17 



THE BLACKSMITH OF SIPPICAN 

A happy throng, and brave and bright. 
And yet 'tis not of these I write. 

A man from Middleboro town 
One afternoon came driving down. 
In Little Neck his quest he ceased 
And shelter found for man and beast. 
When horse was baited well, and he 
Had smoked his pipe and drank his tea, 
Before the twilight glow had fied 
He called his host and this he said : 
**One day at home I struck a man 
Whose place was * down in Sippican.* 

**He stopped with me a winter night, 
And slipped away before 'twas light. 
He paid me well with tales he told, 
A-talking till the night was old. 
A man he was of giant frame; 
Of Goths or Anakim he came. 
His arms could swing prodigious weights. 
His shoulders carry Gaza's gates; 
He stooped as if to ease his power 
And stood like Pisa's leaning tower. 
The half his yarns I cannot tell. 
But two or three remember well. 
And now have driven down, of course. 
To see the * ferryboat' and * horse.'" 

18 



THE BLACKSMITH OF SIPPICAN 

The other begged him to explain, 
And did not spend his breath in vain, 
For, while the air was dense Vv^ith smoke, 
He cleared his throat and thus he spoke: 

"He told me, I remember well. 
The vessel was a tortoise shell, 
A whaler brought from southern seas — 
The isles of Cannibals and ease; 

" And that her steady course she plows 
Betwixt Nye's wharf and Henry Dow's. 
I've often wondered how 'twould seem 
To see a tortoise go by steam. 
But this was nothing to the other: 
He talked about him like a brother — 
The famous horse with limb and wind 
To leave the thunder storm behind." 

The host with blank amazement dumb. 
Intent to hear the tale to come, 
A trifle closer hitched his chair. 
And like an oak was rooted there. 

"My name," said he, "is Rufus Briggs. 
I drove to Mattapoise' for pigs 
One afternoon. The sky was black 
Behind us as we started back. 

19 



THE BLACKSMITH OF SIPPICAN 

"'Twas dog-days an' a time of drouth; 
The dust was deep, the wind was south; 
The thunder grumbled down the bay; 
The lightnin's flash was thereaway. 

** We didn't travel slow nor fast 
Till red-roofed Cannon ville was passed, 
When, by my soul ! I got a scare 
That shook my teeth and raised my hair. 
The thunder busted overhead 
As ef 'twas sent to raise the dead; 
An' Dandy, layin' back 'is ears, 
Jumped like a yoke o' frightened steers. 
An' went as ef a red-hot goad 
His flanks was prickin* all it knowed. 

I dropped the reins and throwed the whip 

To ketch the seat with double grip. 

An' watched the horse as on he tore 

With rain behind an' dust before. 

My breath was gone from Cannonville 

Clean to the bridge 't Macomber's Mill. 

From Macomber's to Rocky Nook 

Like wus'n fever-ag'e I shook. 

All through the woods 'twas black as night. 

Only the flashes gin us light. 

An' sparks that flew from Dandy's hoofs 

Like hail-st'ns dancin' on the roofs. 

20 



THE BLACKSMITH OF SIPPICAN 

But when she slewed at Braley*s Corner 

I guessed the go-cart was a gorner; 

It seemed as ef capsize we must, 

An* drown in mud or choke iu dust; 

I call it sence the cape o' trouble; 

*Twas wus'n Hatteras to double; 

But spite o' fate the thing was done. 

An' faster yet we pelted on. 

House after house went screamin* by; 

The little wagon seemed to fly. 

An* in a jiffy fetched a lurch. 

As we was roundin* at the church. 

That twitched my heart, an* jerked my breath. 

An* made me think the thing was death. 

'Hear what I say an* don't forget; 
Not by a drop was Dandy wet. 
The dasher an* the seat was dry. 
An* drier 'n any bone was I, 
But at the shop I turned to find 
The pigs was drownded in behind, *' 

The stranger ceased; so must my lay; 

Suffice it, in a word, to say. 

The blacksmith flourishes today. 

The ferryboat is lying by. 

At least it does not meet the eye. 

The famous horse is famous still. 

Though now as steady as a mill. 

21 



THE BLACKSMITH OF SIPPICAN 

The shop stands where it stood before, 
A furlong from the church or more; 
A beast is always on the floor, 
For, spite of tortoises and pigs, 
There's none can set a shoe like Briggs. 

CONCLUSION 

Decades have passed since this was told; 
The writer of the rhyme is old; 
His hair is white, his eyes are dim; 
His hearing has gone back on him; 
The blacksmith and the rapid horse 
Are gone to their progenitors; 
The town that knew this horse and man 
Is quite another Sippican; 
The generation now in view 
Is one these heroes never knew. 
And yet the road is quite the same 
As that o'er which the go-cart came. 
Macomber's Mill has passed away 
And Rocky Nook is changed, they say; 
But Mattapoise' still raises pigs, 
As good as those that beckoned Briggs. 
But is there one, or young or old. 
Can match the yarns that Rufus told? 
And who shall find the equine jade 
Can touch the record Dandy made? 

22 



THE WATCH BELOW 

His childhood's longings are come true 
In all their widest, wildest range; 

This is the picture fancy drew; 
How real, yet how strange. 

The braces snap; the storm sails rip; 

The fettered gales have struggled free; 
The straining greyhound is the ship, 

The foaming wolves the sea. 

Their glistening fangs are wide to strike; 

Their famished eyes are flakes of fire; 
Hunger and surfeit whet alike 

Their immemorial ire. 

But fleeter than the fleeing hound, 
And surer than the ruthless foe. 

On rushes to its fated bound 
The midnight watch below. 

The watch is called; he never heeds; 

Let the sweet feast his longing cloy; 
On nectar and ambrosia feeds 

The sleeping sailor boy. 

2S 



THE WATCH BELOW 

The fo*castle, the deck, the spars. 
The swollen sea, the lowering skies. 

The drowning sun, the dripping stars 
Have faded from his eyes. 

The mast is creaking by his berth, 
The lantern smokes above his head. 

But sleepless potentates of earth 
Might envy him his bed. 

His yearning gaze is on the past; 

Through their red gates the hot tears flow; 
That this swift hour will be his last 

Ah, well he does not know. 

His sister's prattle charms his ear; 

His mother's silence stirs his soul; 
What matters now the exile's tear. 

The vessel's plunging roll? 

All in the revel of his dream 

He loiters down the leafy lane; 
He plashes in the pebbly stream; 

Above the storm's refrain 

He hears the oriole's sweet clang; 

He sees the swinging apple spray; 
The same call through the orchard rang 

The morn he came away. 

24 



THE WATCH BELOW 

The age-long malady of grief 
No earthly remedy can mend ; 

Alas, that only joy is brief. 
That fairest visions end! 

He wakes at rush of trampling feet, 

And shouts and oaths that stay his prayer, 

To join, at halyard and at sheet. 
The seamen swaying there. 

With these he lines the lurching deck. 
And mans the yards that skim the seas : 

He fears nor wind, nor wave, nor wreck, 
Nor destiny's decrees. 

In all his wrath the storm is on; 

Deep calls to deep in travail-moan; 
Down to the waste the boy has gone — 

The weltering waste — alone. 

The horror of the downward sweep. 

The struggle of the smothering brine. 
My guardian angel, thou wouldst weep 

If such a fate were mine ! 

Didst ghostly forms about him flit 
In the vast void of rolling foam? 

Did all the demons of the pit 
To mock his anguish come? 

25 



THE WATCH BELOW 

Stay, weak lament! He fared not ill; 

My life-dream too will soon go by. 
It is his watch below; be still; 

Let the wet sea boy lie ! 



26 



SONNET TO A REJECTED POEM 

Poor little poem, how forlorn returning 

That wentest forth with how high hopes of fame ! 

Didst not experience a sense of shame 
Or indignation mute, against thy spurning, 
When nothing saved thee from contemptuous burning, 

Or parsimonious selling, save my name 

And paltry lucre? Ah, 'tis still the same 
From age to age with much of mortal yearning. 
Man toils and sweats for wealth he may not gain; 

In hopeless quest of glory doth he bleed; 

To fame's dim heights, unscalable, would climb. 
Yet fruitless effort is not all in vain; 

Success may lie in failure to succeed; 

'Twas thus perhaps with thee, dear foolish rhyme. 



«7 



MY NEIGHBOR OF YESTERDAY 

Beneath yon widely spreading tree 
From youth to age he dwelt; 

So near to Nature's heart was he 
Its even beat he felt. 

His character wore no disguise; 

He envied none his place. 
The blue of heaven was in his eyes, 

Its freedom in his face. 

As guileless as a little child. 

As thoughtless for renown. 
The weighted years were on him piled, 

Until they bore him down. 

He took the weal, and took the woe 

Of life with equal mind; 
Let stream run dry, let stream o'erflow. 

To the great Will resigned. 

The face we ne'er shall see again 

Will waver and grow dim; 
The fields and streams will not retain 

The memory of him. 

28 



MY NEIGHBOR OF YESTERDAY 

The mighty elm that o'er it bends 

With a benignant grace, 
At once caresses and defends 

His earthly biding-place. 

How fares he now? Oh, who shall say. 
For who that way hath trod? 

He was my neighbor yesterday. 
He dwells to-day with God. 



29 



THE POINT OF VIEW 

Dear hearts, while we from year to year. 

Waking and sleeping linger here, 

A vapor often climbs to view 

And crawls across the concave blue. 



At first a handbreadth in extent. 
At last it spans the firmament; 
At first a film like cobweb spun. 
At last it darkens the great sun. 



Yet 'tis the point of view we take 
The world of difference doth make; 
'Tis altering this defeats our fears 
Or wins us laughter for our tears. 



The mountain summit to the crowd 
That stand below is swathed in cloud; 
To those who soar beyond its height 
'Tis bathed in everlasting light. 

80 



THE POINT OF VIEW 

So life to me were whelmed in woe 
While I remain were you to go. 
But when the heavenly heights are clomb 
'Twere joy of joys to have you come. 



81 



THE SINGER 

She stood behind the golden rail 

With other singers; 
To bring them back my efforts fail; 

Her vision lingers. 

Fare after face they all have fled 

Through memory's portal; 
One after one they all are dead; 

She is immortal. 

They sang for fame, or praise, or pay, 

And won and lost them, — 
Baubles that tarnish and decay 

Where time hath tossed them. 

The music that they made is gone 

Past all returning; 
The music that she made goes on 

Like the stars* burning; 

For heaven and earth to bring more near 

Was her endeavor. 
And as she sang when she was here 

She sings forever. 

32 



THE SINGER 

When earth grows dim and the far sky 

Is growing clearer. 
Part of my joy will be that I 

Again shall hear her. 



83 



ON THE SHELF 

How dull it is to pause, to make an end. 
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use. 
As though to breathe were life. 

— Tennyson's Ulysses. 



*'To pause, to make an end!" to heed 
The hours' procession moving slow, 
From mortal inward wounds to bleed. 
But not to die face to the foe; 

To see the strong world crowding on 
With unspent energy and fire. 

Prize after prize to yield unwon. 
And sadder yet to lack desire; 

To see vacations come and close. 
Returning now to work no more — 

No more with toil to earn repose, 
Although more weary than before. 

Nor this alone, since memory 

Runs backward to the age of gold 

(An age to most unknown to be 
Till squandered is its wealth untold) ; 

34 



ON THE SHELF 

But now to think of hours misspent, 

Of opportunities unused, 
Of losses that were accident. 

But are the Master's trust abused; 

Of wisdom's pages left unturned. 
Of conscience damaged by pretense. 

Of heedlessness that left unlearned 
The lessons of experience; 

Of dues to God that were not given, 
Of words for mourners left unsaid. 

Of treasure not laid up in heaven. 
Of efforts that were never made. 

And now to stand without the fight, 
All powerless for a single stroke. 

Where wrong is hotly pressing right 
Whose standards waver in the smoke. 

To hear the cheers that rend the air 
When error's champions assail. 

To sink to earth in mute despair. 
Since truth unaided seems to fail. 

My God, it is a time of pain. 

Of peril and extremity; 
The solaces of earth are vain. 

But I will stay myself on Thee; 

35 



ON THE SHELF 

Will heavenward turn my earnest gaze, 
Will overcome my slothful self, 

Will seek the knowledge of Thy ways, 
Though rusting on this dusty shelf. 

Until at last when life is done, 

And thou dost not my prayers refuse, 
I shall be found a living stone. 
And polished for the Master's use. 



86 



TOM EEED'S SCHOOL DAYS 

Read at the Unveiling of the Reed Statue at Portland, Maine, 
August 81, 1910. 

*Tis often said and sung in prose and rhyme 

That, recognizing an eternal plan, 
Of all the fabrics from the loom of time. 

The costliest and comeliest is man. 

'Tis not the semblance we to-day unveil, 

Nor yet the scene tradition will recall, 
'Tis not the massive bronze that will prevail. 

It is — it is the great original. 

His presence dominated hall and street; 

His voice at need rang stormy music then; 
His epigrams we oft and oft repeat; 

We meet and greet no more this man of men. 

But faithful memory conducts us back — 
To far-off scenes of trouble, touched with joy, 

Along the lengthened decades' tangled track — 
Back to the schoolroom, where we find the boy. 

37 



TOM REED'S SCHOOL DAYS 

Unspoiled by praise, un vexed by fortune's frown; 

Unlike his kind, for like him who could be? 
Unknown as yet, here in his native town; 

A lad desirous of fame is he. 

But droll the drawl when, having made his bow. 
The new declaimer has the stage and floor; 

And deep the seer's dream revealing now 
The houses hushed, the tables on a roar; 

The nation's fierce arena of debate; 

The staying of her gladiators' game; 
The recognition legislators wait; 

A people's plaudits and the world's acclaim. 

'Tis in the schoolroom that the strife begins, — 
Self against self, with conquest or defeat; 

'Tis here the baser or the nobler wins 

When, issue joined, these adversaries meet. 

But dauntless, though his first endeavors fail, 
And habit, regnant long, resists control; 

Regarding not if ridicule assail, 

Ambition's thrill he nurtures in his soul. 

No blatant boast of arrogance is here. 
Nor prophecy of battles to be won; 

The day is seized and, scorning failure's fear. 
The struggle, strenuous and long, is on, 

38 



TOM REED'S SCHOOL DAYS 

Wherein, though once impatient of restraint. 
He flinched from discipHne*s refining fire, 

He yet shall win, surrendering complaint. 

The self-control that subjugates desire. 

i 
Regarding loss, in honor's service, gain; 

To one high purpose stubbornly he clings; 

Resists allurements that have heroes slain; 

Nor heeds her song, whatever siren sings. 

So, as the scroll of midnight is unrolled. 
Some tireless searcher, with illumined eye. 

Resolving mysteries the stars enfold. 

Lets fate, and chaos, and the hours go by. 

The harp of life awakens at his touch; 

The gleam of genius steals into his face; 
He bides his time to gather in his clutch 

The long-denied ambitions of his race. 

Ah, ill for one, the favorite of fate. 

Of gifts exalted or a noble name. 
Whom sloth and pleasure charm, and enervate. 

And bring forgetfulness in place of fame. 

But well for him, in cruel fortune brave. 
Who molds condition, like the potter's clay; 

Whose wit and wisdom overmatch the grave. 
And hold the foe obUvion at bay. 

S9. 



TOM REED'S SCHOOL DAYS 

Majestic Shade, where thou abidest now 
Beyond defeat, decrepitude, and dust, 

Accept thy schoolmate's laurel for thy brow; 
Renown's endowment to the ages trust. 



40 



/ 



THE QUEEN OF TOMPKINS SQUARE 

I met her at the Mission School 

And wooed and won her there — 
The sovereign of the golden rule. 

The Queen of Tompkins Square. 

She was a little woman when 

She made my heart her thrall; 
Little I find her now as then 

And yet a queen withal. 

The boys she taught were sharp as sin 

And rough as hickory bark; 
She wiled the wily gamins in 

And made them toe the mark. 

In rankest *' Mackerel ville'' they hived 

Hard up against the leads; 
On Sunday mornings she arrived 

And hauled them from their beds. 

In spite of sickening odors there, 

And drunken curse and scoff. 
She washed their faces, brushed their hair, 

And marched the urchins off. 

41 



THE QUEEN OF TOMPKINS SQUARE 

She made their miseries her own; 

She bore their pains and smarts; 
Her soft tongue broke the flinty bone, 

And won their heathen hearts. 

I saw these pagans Christians made. 

Their dirt and squalor flee; 
"The girl who made this change," I said, 

"Is just the maid for me." 

Her sire, a portly merchant prince, 

And I a student spare; 
How dared I claim (I wonder since) 

The Queen of Tompkins Square .^^ 

Call me a fool or sinner's son; 

An angel I would wed. 
If fool I was 'tis fools rush on 

Where angels fear to tread. 

She bade me bend her father's will; 

Her father's will was hers. 
She loved me as she loves me still, 

But fate might be averse. 

I sought the governor not afeared, — 

I was a giant then — 
And let him know I came to beard 

The lion in his den. 



THE QUEEN OF TOMPKINS SQUARE 

'*I need a wife like her", I said, 
"To make me do my best; 
To conquer fear, and keep my head, 
And button up my vest. " 

*I do not ask for less or more; 
Expense shall be defrayed; 
Take in your mat and lock the door. 
But let me have the maid. " 

'Tis said some moments lucky are. 

When schemes are well begun; 
The wish made with the shooting-star 

Is in the moment won. 

The time to strike the iron is when 

The stubborn bar is hot; 
The time to set the wilful hen 

Is when she'd lief as not. 

That happy hour how well I know! 

How could I well forget .f* 
'Twas many and many a year ago 

And I am happy yet. 

My trustful heart he did not grieve. 

But used me like an heir; 
"And so I won my Genevieve," — 

The Queen of Tompkins Square. 

43 



THE OLD SEA CAPTAIN 

In the secluded, sleepy town 

A little world his will obeys, 
As when his ships went up and down 

On the wide ocean ways. 

So long he trod the reeling decks 
With watchful eye and wary feet. 

As though he still of danger recks 
He walks the stable street. 

So well he scanned by day and night 
The veering clouds and fickle sea. 

His vision, like the eagle's sight. 
Seems strange to you and me. 

So long he felt the jar and fret 
Of storm, and calm, and tidal roll. 

The strength and weakness these beget 
Have passed into his soul. 

He does not know the landsman's art 
To plead and please, and overreach; 

Unfenced as ocean's fields his heart. 
As fraught with storms his speech. 

44 



THE OLD SEA CAPTAIN 

Though sometimes through his eyes there gleams 

A love-Hght, soft as flame refined, 
In *his severer moods he seems 

A stranger to his kind. 

When evening's sombre curtains fall 
And lights from heavenly casements leap 

He hears the sea-bird's cry and all 
The noises of the deep. 

The welkin fails to comfort him 

Whose boundary our vision bars; 
He longs to pass its girdling rim 

And raise the alien stars. 

When slumber seals his wakeful ears 

His voyages he makes once more. 
By reefs that erst have wrecked him steers 

And hears their breakers roar. 

The good ships, once his joy and pride 

But long the driftwood of the seas. 
He guides where fleets and navies ride 

His pride and wonder these. 

His crews are those he shipped of old; 

They grumble still, and sing, and swear; 
Their bones are mixed with pearls and gold 

That pave the kraken's lair. 

45 



THE OLD SEA CAPTAIN 

His gaze fixt on the warning glass. 
The guiding stars, the needle's poise. 

He keeps all watches as they pass — 
Till dawn the dream destroys. 

Of the long voyage oft he thinks. 

Across a water never passed, 
And trusts, whatever floats or sinks. 

To make the port at last. 

Think not his deeper self to know; 

His handshake thine, his smile, his bow; 
But his companions long ago 

Are his companions now. 



46 



ANOTHER DAY 

Lord, as the evening's curtains lower 
And night comes steaUng on, 

I offer one petition more 
Before my day is done. 

It is not for belated fame. 

Nor yet for honor dear; 
It is not to escape the shame 

Of failure or of fear. 

While many stress and struggle shirk. 
And shun the stormy seas, 

I ask Thee still for earthly work 
And not for heavenly ease. 

Tho saddened oft by scenes of strife, 

By violence and crime, 
I am not weary of my life. 

Nor out of sorts with time; 

But would return, a child again. 

In the millennial age; 
Would grow to manhood with its men 

And in its work engage; 

47 



ANOTHER DAY 

Would see its sights, would breathe its breaths. 

Would hear its battle cries; 
Would do its deeds, defy its deaths. 

And share its agonies; 

Would see the heaven of heavens laid bare. 
The earth's foundations rocked; 

And powers of light and darkness where 
In mortal conflict locked; 

Till Wrong is worsted and undone. 

And Right receives the crown. 
And in the West the sanguine sun 

In triumph has gone down. 

To dwell in my eternal home 

Desire doth not abate. 
But to behold Thy kingdom come 

I bid my longing wait. 

Not mine to alter Thy decrees, 

Nor to assign my task; 
But this the day my vision sees. 

And this the boon I ask. 



48 



IN THE GLOAMING 

'T was long ago, so long I hardly dare 
To reckon, when in morning's mellow gleam, 

A shining shadow down the shining stair. 
Glided to meet me like a tender dream. 

'T was long ago, the gentle violets 

Their hues have gathered and their fragrance shed 
So many times that jealous memory frets 

No longer that the morn from her has fled. 

'T was long ago, the selfish world without 
My soul so oft has harried with its strife. 

And swept the selfish world within to rout. 
That the fair morning seems another life. 

*T was long ago, but sometimes ask I yet : 
Before the gloaming darkens will the air 

Grow luminous again .^^ ere I forget 

Will the sweet shadow steal a-down the stair? 



49 



HAIL AND FAREWELL 

The world will wear a sadder face, 
Its heart will bear another pain, 

That for her pity's tender grace 
Its hungry search will be in vain. 

**Her eyes were homes of silent prayer"; 
Her heart was like a swelling sea, 
And many a grief and many a care 
Were gathered to their sympathy. 

Her mind was like a temple old, 

Whose walls were hung by pious hands, 

With offerings of gems and gold. 
The ample spoils of many lands. 

Or, rather, like a Christian fane. 

With windows bright and portals wide. 

And pouring harmonies to gain 

The throngs that long have truth denied. 

To lose her from our eager ken. 

To lose her thought to ripeness grown. 

To lose her presence, are as when 
A richly freighted ship goes down. 

50 



HAIL AND FAREWELL 

A chasm cleaves the ocean stream, 
The waves close over as before, 

The lonely seabirds wheel and scream. 
The stately ship returns no more. 

While dazed and s-hivering at its brink, 
W^here sorrow's deep to deep replies, 

It seems incredible to think 

The grave could win so rare a prize. 

It cannot be that earth is all. 
That she today is less than we. 

That death can hold within its thrall 
A life like this; it cannot be. 

The heart whose throbbing silent is 
To earthly senses beats on high; 

The star-like soul is quenched in this. 
To brighten in another sky. 

Oh, whom but yesterday we knew, 
Whose thoughts today we cannot tell. 

We know thou still to truth art true; 
Hail, gracious spirit, and farewell! 



^1 



THE HOUR 

This is the hour all History shall claim. 
There is a moment in the lives of men, 
In this and every age, one moment, when 

A noble deed may win undying name; 

But this, bloom of the century, doth shame 
All years that have been, or may be again, 
For Freedom tracks Oppression to his den. 

"This is the hour,'' is writ with blood and fiame 

Across the continent — "this is the hour." 

Stand, statesmen, stand ! the crisis now is come ; 
Your firmness nerves your country's arm with power. 

Speak, orators, or be forever dumb ! 

United North, advance — strength is your dower — 

And stand, and strike, and you must overcome. 



1861 



52 



THE MAN 

"Where is the man?" I heard one in despair. 

"The dauntless Moses, that shall lead us through? 
Or blameless Arthur? — they that overthrew. 
And left without a name, the heathen, where 
They filled the land, as locusts fill the air. '* 

Wretch ! to your country and yourself untrue, 

Fear not; the duty it is yours to do 
Is this: Go, breathe the battle's breath, and there 
Take all your heart. Life, fortune, hope of fame, 

(Like him last fallen — Freedom's latest boast — 
Nathaniel Coeur de Lyon be his name — 

With hearts like whose, a handful were a host, 
And each the Man), your dearest love and hate. 
Lay on your country's altar. God is great. 

1861 



53 



THE OILMAN HOUSE 

The meeting-house is but a dream : 

It vanished Hke the snow 
That arches the corroding stream 

And mingles with its flow. 

The graveyard, just across the way. 

Across the way remains; 
Its mould has fattened on decay 

And losses are its gains. 



Its rolling verdure rests the eye — 

A sea with foamless waves; 
And vanished generations lie 

Beneath its billowy graves. 

The parsonage is standing yet 

With more than local fame; 
A century's rains its roof have wet — 

"The Gilman House'* its name. 

Here Parson Gilman honors scorned, 

And here he multiplied; 
And here he mourned, as Jacob mourned 

When lovely Rachel died. 

54 



THE OILMAN HOUSE 

Why should I mention lesser names 

The world has never heard? 
Their piety the stars outflames — 

These saints uncalendared. 

As heaven is high and earth is round. 

And vast the deep's abyss, 
The circling sun has rarely found 

A fairer scene than this. 

The storied "ledge" climbs high behind, 

The fields drop low before; 
Beyond are islands silver-lined 

Where warring waters pour. 

Old manse, of kindred long bereft, 

My life its limit nears; 
Thy age is youth, to thee are left 

Another hundred years. 

Thy company are memories. 

The ghosts that throng the night, 

The warriors in phantom guise 
That storm the rocky height. 

For thee the red man lives once more; 

He hunts for human game. 
And frightened hamlets melt before 

The tomahawk and flame. 

55 



THE GILMAN HOUSE 

But here the living come with me 
To find where life was given. 

And here the sainted dead to see 
The door that led to Heaven. 



56 



THE OLD SAINT 

The day is gone, the solemn night draws down; 

From the dim deeps their treasured splendors stream. 
She sleeps, like Jacob near the Syrian town; 

And earth and heaven commingle in her dream. 

Her faithful life is drawing to a close, 

Its labors and its cares she leaves behind; 

And mirror-like, her peaceful visage shows 
A trusting heart and a will disciplined. 

Low as the wavelets whisper to the sand, 
Soft as the moonlight's message to the sea, 

Ix)w, soft, and sweet, here in the border-land, 
The mortal's call to immortality. 

She hears the mother-song of long ago. 

She breathes the verse that was her evening prayer; 
Her brow is whiter than the sifted snow. 

Her lips and heart are silent, she is there. 

There, where the troublings of the wicked cease; 

There, where the tired pilgrim is at rest; 
There, in the haven of eternal peace, — 

God's city with the mansions of the blest. 

57 



THE HUNNEWELL GARDENS 

The light of the azaleas has paled; 

The circling boughs unloose their leafy band; 
The magic mirror is at once unveiled; 

And, lo ! the cunning of a Merlin's hand. 

Enchantment's spell is on the sleeping stream; 

On the still sky, and the unbreathing day; 
On the rapt gazer, and the pictured dream 

Whose changing pageant passes not away. 

The sinless birds retain their paradise; 

The murmuring bees with nectar-freight are piled; 
The air is sweet with many melodies; 

Pain is estranged, and sorrow is beguiled. 

Beyond, the halls of learning stay the gaze 
Where aspiration wrestles with desire; 

But here, content, the guardian genius, sways 
The hearth of age, and cheers its mellowing fire. 

Thrice honored hearth of him whose generous hand 
On all who come bestows these treasures rare; 

Long may this hand its ample stores command; 
And late may Grief with these her mantle share. 

58 



THE HUNNEWELL GARDENS 

From this high arbor, solitude's retreat, 

Where care's consuming worry ends its pain. 

And low ambitions grovel at my feet. 
My vision compasses the mimic main. 

Here fancy finds an Oriental sea, 

With spicy breaths from "Araby the blest," 
With galleys gay and banners flying free. 

And bales of commerce floating to the West. 

The verdurous loveliness that charms the eye; 

The water that the twilight turns to wine; 
The airy argosies that voyage high; 

Gold cannot gain them; dreamer, they are thine. 

Stay then, and dream through the delicious day. 
Till evening folds thee in its peace serene; 

Dream on, till light and life dissolve away. 

And death, God's angel, comes and shuts the scene. 



59 



THE GIRL THAT STOLE MY 
HEART AWAY 

The girl that stole my heart away 
Was Angelina Popinjay. 

'T was long ago her letters say, 

(I write as though 't were yesterday). 

I know not how she wrought the theft, 
The casket of the gem bereft, 

And yet it rather seems to me 

She must have coaxed away the key. 

I know not when it was unless 
A moment of forgetfulness. 

And where the dreadful deed was done 
My wits can give assurance none. 

Methinks I was beside the elf; 
Perchance I was beside myself. 

60 



THE GIRL THAT STOLE MY HEART AWAY 

She would not long forgiveness lack 
Were she to bring the treasure back; 

But when I supplicate the maid 
She claims the trinket is mislaid. 

The hurt were not so sorely felt 
Did I alone adorn her belt. 

She wears the hearts of several dozens 
Of brothers (?), lovers, friends and cousins; 

Our woes the unassorted spoils 
Of artless arts and bloodless broils. 

She shows them as the savage shows 
The horrid headgear of his foes. 

Ah me ! who other than a savage 

The precincts of the soul could ravage? 

And who believe, but such as she. 
That misery loves company? 

But what's the secret of her charm? 
What is it works this world of harm? 

61 



THE GIRL THAT STOLE MY HEART AWAY 

Is it a merry, flashing eye, 

A mocking laugh, a melting sigh, 

A voice whose music is the dream- 
Y babble of a mountain stream? 

Is it, with subtle self-control. 
The fusing of the sense and soul 

That conquers fears, and tempers joys, 
And bliss impossible alloys? 

Is the heat-lightning of her smiles 
The consummation of her wiles? 

Or is it just her charming chatter 
That makes the mischief of the matter? 

Why, Angelina, vex a fellow 
Until his leaf is sere and yellow? 

For gracious pity's sake make plain 
The secret of this teasing pain. 

Your sisters too would die to know 
Your cause of joy as theirs of woe, 

6^ 



THE GIRL THAT STOLE MY HEART AWAY 

And science with an equal mind 
Would classify your cruel kind. 

No more — no more — except to say : — 

maid who with my heart made way. 

And will not give me yea or nay, 

1 know not why I am today. 

So pestered with a popinjay. 



SS 



MY WHITE-CAPPED NURSE 

Day by day, with unconscious grace. 

You come and go, my white-capped nurse; 

As light your step, as bright your face 
If woes or blessings I rehearse. 

Strange to your kindred, far from home. 
And meeting with unquickened breath 

Man's final foe, you have become 
Familiar with the face of Death. 

When, in the spacious void of night. 
He came and paused beside my bed 

Once and again, and seared my sight. 
You held my hand until he fled. 

Now, as I leave this sacred room 
And you, I breathe a farewell prayer 

That Heaven may bring you fadeless bloom 
And I inhale the fragrance there. 



64 



SIPPICAN 

It is a perfect summer day, 

My senses rest, my fancies play; 
And, rocking in a painted boat. 
Recalling scenes in lands remote, 
I seem at rest, the shores afloat. 

The dear old town, how still it lies. 

Like princess fair, with sealed eyes. 
The sleeper of a hundred years. 
Long let it sleep ere Greed appears. 
To stir its passions and its tears. 

The buildings crowd together all 

As close as if outdoors were small. 
Its homely houses hug the street. 
The lapping waters lave its feet. 
It rides at anchor like a fleet. 

Once, ships were launched here, year by year; 

The energy of trade was here. 

But shipyards now are overgrown; 
Yon lofty warehouse stands alone. 
And tumbles its foundation stone. 

65 



SIPPICAN 

The stream of business ebbed away. 
Like tides from harbor and from bay; 

And Commerce frightened from her track 
(When war obscured the skies with rack). 
Unlike the tides, doth not come back. 

And still, as if to compensate 
For treatment harsh of adverse fate. 
Nature, the grievance to redress. 
Doth robe the spot with loveliness. 
Healing the hurt with fond caress. 

It is a satisfying sight, 

The wave is like a mirror bright; 
The rocks that in confusion lie. 
And with contentment fill the eye. 
Are ruins older than the sky. 

The merry bathers scream and shout; 
The silent skiffs flit in and out; 

The fishers to the fishers call; 

The hawks, high sailing, poise and fall; 

The eye of God is over all. 

Southward there toss, in breezy play. 
The white-capped waves of Buzzard's Bay; 
And, rising as a misty breath. 
Like shores beyond the sea of death. 
The islands of Elizabeth. 

66 



SIPPICAN 

The daylight fails, the twilight falls; 
The shadows scale the horizon's walls. 

Bird Island light glows and grows low; 

The gurgling waters past me flow; 

Out, like the tide, my life will go. 

This dreamful quiet, this repose. 
This scene of peace is tame to those 

Who love the "vexed Bermuda's" roar. 
Or tumbling surf on Labrador, 
Where Ocean's warring waters pour; 

Or, goaded by misfortune's stings, 
Would view the end of cosmic things — 
The desolation of Segiiin, 
When wind and sea come screaming in. 
Where wasteful chaos doth begin. 

But, ye who long for perfect peace, 
Come here, where agitations cease; 

Pour on your trouble this soft balm; 

Drink the clear music of this Psalm; 

And know "there is no joy but calm.'* 



67 



AT THE BEAUTIFUL GATE 

" I shall watch lor you, papa." — Dying words of a child. 

She stood at the beautiful gate of heaven 

And scanned the throngs as they entered there. 

Her face was serene as a soul just shriven, 
And seraph-like were her features fair. 

She had held her place while a score of summers 
And winters on earth went slowly by; 

She had searched the faces of countless comers, 
But the face she looked for drew not nigh. 

But she grew not aweary with her waiting; 

She did not deem it a long delay. 
It was not a place to quarrel with fate in, 

And it was not time that passed away. 

As they came, like carrier pigeons homing. 
Her eyes at times grew misty and dim; 

And she kept repeating, as they kept coming, 
*'I told papa I would watch for him." 

68 



AT THE BEAUTIFUL GATE 

She was not the only one there who waited; 

There was many a face as grave and fair. 
And many a heart with dehght was sated, 

For many were reunited there. 

But at last her vigil was well rewarded. 
For the form she sought before her stood, 

And eyes that remembered her own regarded 
Her own, and in all that multitude! 

But how changed were both since the hour they parted. 
When the home she loved was lost to sight. 

Where those she left had been broken-hearted! 
But that was darkness and this was light. 

"And what did they do now?" you ask, as I did. 

They left behind the beautiful door 
And went on together, so long divided. 

But never to be divided more. 



69 



THE BUTTERFLY 

He loitered on from flower to flower 
With easy, undulating swing; 

A guileless cheat of childhood's hour, 
Without a care, without a sting. 

Bloom after bloom he touched and passed 
Lightly as fairy waves his wand; 

Though hat in hand I followed fast. 
He idly floated just beyond. 

His life perchance was sweet as mine. 
His work as useful in its sphere. 

His brilliancy a gift divine, 
To Nature's heart his presence dear. 

At last I crushed him in my grasp 

And spilled the splendor from his wing, 

Unconscious of his pleading gasp, — 
The dying, desolated thing. 

But morning's trickish glamour gone. 
And evening's pensive languor nigh, 

The tasks of eve and morn undone, 
I still pursue the butterfly; 

70 



THE BUTTERFLY 

Some luring and elusive bliss. 

Some flickering wisp whose grasp were vain; 
If Heaven but deign to grant me this 

What matters lesser creatures' pain? 

O dullard ! slow to understand 

That happiness is vainly chased, 
But clutched by selfish, ruthless hand. 

The primal impress is effaced. 

Then give me back the childhood scene, — 
The land of bloom, the sea of sky. 

And, wandering o'er his wide demesne. 
The tireless, tameless butterfly. 

There would I leave him all his own. 
Lord of the realm that loves him best. 

And I secure would hold my throne. 
The monarch of a peaceful breast. 



71 



DEAREST ONE 
A Song 

My thoughts are all of thee. 

Return, return to me. 
How fast the moments fly 

My love when thou art nigh; 
How long and sad the day 

When thou art far away, 
Dearest one, O dearest one. 

My heart is drawn by thee 
As by the moon the sea; 

Thou art my soul's desire; 
Thou art my altar's fire. 

Thine, thine I am alway. 
Thou dost my being sway. 

Dearest one, O dearest one. 

My prayers are all for thee 
Wherever thou may'st be; 

That all thy days be bright. 
That all thy thoughts be right; 

7a 



DEAREST ONE 

That angels thee protect, 

That Heaven thy steps direct, 
Dearest one, O dearest one. 

My life I give to thee — 
The life thou dost not see; 

For thee my lamp I trim; 
For thee my sight grows dim; 

For thee my fingers fly, 
For thee I live and die. 

Dearest one, O dearest one. 



73 



THE DESIRE TO DEPART 

Not to escape the ills of life, 
Not that I dread misfortune's knife, 
Not that I would my duty shirk, 
Not that I weary of Thy work, 

Is my desire to depart, 
Dear Lord, who searchest all my heart 
Thou knowest I would still remain 
In spite of all that gives me pain, — 

The daily burdens that I bear, 
Infirmities that none can share, 
The purposes I fail to keep, 
The downfalls over which I weep; 

Thou knowest if I long to go, 
When troubles seem to overflow, 
From storm without and strife within, 
And all the wretchedness of sin; 

It is not that I now behold 
The sapphire gates and streets of gold; 
That down the vistas of my dreams 
Celestial, fadeless glory gleams; 

7.4 



THE DESIRE TO DEPART 

That loved ones who have gone before 
Re-cross the flood to guide me o'er, 
And teach my lips, in place of sighs, 
The melodies of Paradise: 

Nor yet that I shall enter in 
Where they abide who never sin. 
Who rest from weariness and pain, 
From heartache and a tangled brain; 

It is that when this life is done. 
Its work complete, its battles won, 
Apart from evil I shall be 
Forever, blessed Lbrd, with Thee. 



75 



WABAN MERE 

** , . . splenditior vitro." — Horace^ 

Fair centre of a fair demesne, 

Thyself its fairest part, 
A lovely thing hath never been 

Without a lovelier heart. 

For thee the mid-day's splendors burn, 
The midnight's stars are thine; 

And eve and morn the twilights turn 
Thy waters into wine. 

The scene is necromancy's dream — 

Is nature's sorcery: 
The shore and sky bewitch the stream, 

The stream the shore and sky. 

The present in confusion lies; 

The vanished past is here; 
And pictures of the future rise 

From thee, enchanted mere. 

76 



WABAN MERE 

A mellow, mediaeval light 
Comes down like golden rain; 

And changes yonder mansions bright 
To old chateaux of Spain. 

The meadows billowy and warm 

Are meads of Sicily; 
And, down their deeps, the gliding form 

Is fair Persephone. 

'Tis here the siren-music wins 

That never ruin brings : 
Ulysses here entranced begins 

And ends his wanderings. 

Here duty points and knowledge leads 

The eager, earnest throngs 
To winning words, and dauntless deeds 

Shall right the ages* wrongs. 

Do here (Enone's sorrows lurk 
Like mists in cloudless skies? 

Doth here deception's sorrow work 
The guile of Helen's eyes? 

It may not be. O sentient thing, 

More luminous than glass. 
Such shadows do not hither fling. 

Deflect them as they pass 1 

77. 



WABAN MERE 

Thy beauty is the aureole old 
That haloes learning's brow. 

Time need not "fetch the age of gold, 
The age of gold is now. 



78 



TO TORQUATUS 

Horace — Book iv: Ode vii. 

The snows have fled, and now the growing grass 

Reclothes the fields, the foHage the trees; 
The earth renews her youth, and dwindling pass 

The streams between their borders to the seas. 

A Grace with sister Nymphs unites, and these 
Lead on the dance, unzoned, without a fear. 

Wisdom with Nature in this word agrees — 
The admonition of the changing year — 
On immortality man may not reckon here. 



The cold is tempered by the soft west wind, 

Spring yields to Summer in her turn to die, 
Fruit-ladened Autumn's treasures are consigned 

To Winter, whose chilled blood moves sluggishly; 

The seasons' waste the seasons remedy : 
But we, once dead, are dust and shade for aye. 

Like good iEneas, TuUus royally 
Begot and rich, and Ancus in his day 
Renowned, but now their bones lie moldering in decay. 

70 



TO TORQUATUS 

Who now can know if the Superior Powers, 

That mortal destinies arrange before. 
Have with to-day's conjoined to-morrow's hours. 

As with these days the days that are no more? 

Thy utmost hoard thou thinkest to outpour 
With unaffected kindness in thy heart; 

The greedy heir, who eyes the expected store. 
Before his time must from these scenes depart. 
And death alone will soothe his disappointment's smart. 

Thou, too, Torquatus, when cut off at last. 

What time stern Minos issues his decree, 
Wilt not escape thy fate, albeit thou hast 

Descent, and eloquence, and piety; 

Since not Diana even may set free 
The pure Hippolytus with earnest prayer; 

Nor Theseus' efforts may rewarded be 
To break the chains of Lethe's prison, where 
Lies loved Pirithous, forlorn in his despair. 



80 



THE LILY POND 

O fons Bandusiae splenditior vitro. — Horace. 

O lily-pond, thy early charm 
The years have not effaced; 

The wooing wild-wood's amorous arm 
Has wandered round thy waist. 

The treasure at thy rainbow's end 

As day is nearing night 
When sheen and shadow interblend. 

Is memory's delight. 

The palpitating butterfly 

Still eavesdropping doth seem 

As tree-tops whisper ceaselessly 
The scandal of the stream. 

Rome's cruelty of long ago 

Is a forgiven crime. 
This dragon-fly is working woe 

Now, as in Nero's time. 

81 



THE LILY POND 

It is not old, it is not new. 
This conquest and defeat; — 

The fish-hawk dreaming in the blue 
And dying at my feet. 

The guardian ferns' asexual brood 

Is envious of the bloom 
That overleans the luring flood 

A-dallying with doom. 

Like angels now ignoring time. 

Or saints in mortal guise, 
These lilies with their roots in slime 

Are fragrant of the skies. 

Fair fountain, *neath thy leafy screen. 

Nor luminous than glass. 
While nimble seasons shift the scene 

The sluggard ages pass. 

Eternity engulfs them all, — 

Event and incident. 
The changeless is ephemeral. 

The changing permanent. 



82 



OLD AND YOUNG 

Grandpa, what are the drums a-saying? 

They beat so long, and beat so low; 
And you old soldiers step together 

So solemn-like, and sad, and slow. 

Thej^'re saying, boy, that we remember 
The lads that held the sticks before; 

And we are marching now together 

Who soon will meet and march no more. 

Grandpa, what are the bugles saying? 

Their music sounds so sad and sweet. 
It almost takes me up to Heaven, 

Where I could kiss the angels' feet. 

They're telling, boy, of a better country 
With brighter sky and softer air; 

And they who dared to die for duty 
Are gone to live forever there. 

Grandpa, why do we take the flowers 
And leave them on the ground to die. 

With little flags among them waving? 
You dropped them there, and so did I. 

83 



OLD AND YOUNG 

We take the flowers, boy, and leave them 
Above the soldier-dead to-day 

Because their sweetness still reminds us 
That bitterness has passed away. 

Why do so many people, grandpa, 

Go to the church, and pray, and sing. 
And speak some poems and orations ^ 

And never want to end the thing? 

¥ 
They go because they never tire 

The story of the war to hear, 
And they are grateful to the soldiers. 

This soldier-day of all the year. 

Then don't you cry about it, grandpa; 

The tears are running down your face; 
When you are buried with the others 

I'll be a soldier in your place. 



84 



THE DERELICT 

Beyond the rim of waters vast 

They saw her canvas gleam, 
And then the apparition passed 

Like an elusive dream. 

She vanished out of human ken, 

She lost her name and fame; 
But heaven alone knows where or when 

Her desolation came. 

The crew, that manned and banned her, now 

Nor calms nor tempests vex; 
The pirate billows board her bow 

And sweep her slimy decks. 

Only the wild winds strike her bells. 
The blind waves heave her wheel; 

Her leaks are streaming as the swells 
Her gaping seams unseal. 

Upflung against relentless skies 

Or downward dragged amain. 
Heaven heedeth not her agonies. 

Or heedeth them in vain. 

85 



THE DERELICT 

Shunned by her kin and kind, though still 

At heart as proud as they, 
She bides her time to work her will 

And holds her fate at bay. 

While leven-brands forbear to strike, 

As clouds above her frown. 
She haunts abysses, phantom-like. 

That wait to wash her down; 

Until Despair's appalling call. 

In some uncharted zone, 
Shall urge her o'er its verge to crawl 

And make the plunge alone. 

What high hopes perished in her clutch 

Eternity may tell. 
The snarl untangle with a touch 

And break the fatal spell. 



86 



THE FORESIDE MEETING HOUSE 

The Meeting House belies its age today; 

The spot its loveliness unspoiled retains; 
The silver shimmer of the isle-strewn bay 

Still passing, still remains. 

Here gathered they who in contrition came 
With sin and sorrow and their solace found; 

Here left memorials to last when fame 
Oblivion has drowned. 

Here, in the morning and the evening hush, 
Their faces grave by sacred flame illumed. 

Devotion's sacrifice, like Horeb's bush, 
Burned and was not consumed. 

Here turning oft from earth to Heaven their gaze, 
They loved, these dwellers in Faith's age of gold. 

To hear their elders, in the olden phrase. 
The older truth unfold. 

And here the singing of the rural choir 

Was touched to heavenly harmony as when, 

Their voices thrilling with celestial fire. 
The angels sang to men. 

87 



THE FORESIDE MEETING HOUSE 

As then the forest presses on behind; 

The pasture stretches to the wave before; 
The fishhawk circles wide his prey to find, 

But these — no more, no more ! 

Yet there's a breathing in the brooding air, 
A glamor in the dawn and death of day, 

A presence, nowhere and yet everywhere 
That is, and is not, they. 

Today we worship at the ancient shrine. 
Remote from noise and worriment's alarm; 

We gaze our fill on Nature's face divine 
Uncheated of a charm. 

And when the shrine and scene we leave behind. 
Childhood and age will gather, year by year. 

The Sabbath satisfaction still to find. 
And lose their burdens here; 

For yonder molten mirror will be bright. 

The girdled landscape meet the girdling skies, 

And God His children to His Fane invite 
When we are memories. 



88 



DEBORAH YORK 

All along this fair "Foreside" 
Where her kindred lived and died 
When the tide of time ran slow. 
Pours the tide of travel now. 

Here her lover wooed and won her, 
When the dew of youth was on her; 
Here she heard the Master calling 
When the frosts of age were falling. 

Here she learned the stirring story 
Of her country's youth and glory; 
Here began and ceased her work; 
Here they buried Deborah York. 

Near yon spireless country church — 
You may find them if you search — 
At the town's dividing bound 
Are the marble and the mound. 

All her years this side of heaven — 
They were threescore and eleven — 
Are, Hke songs of minstrels olden, 
Grolden verse with music golden. 

89 



DEBORAH YORK 

Many children, many cares; 
Many sorrows, many prayers; 
Sweetly sad her sigh and laugh; 
*Our Mother" her epitaph. 

Now her children too are gone. 
Sons and daughters, every one; 
Some lie where I sit and ponder; 
Three beneath the ocean yonder. 

What is left of Deborah York? 
What remains to praise her work? 
Trouble made her losses plain; 
Tell me, is there any gain? 

Is the landscape fairer for us? 
Bends the blue arch bluer o'er us? 
Are yon flashing waves more bright 
That their sheen was her delight? 

Nay, ah nay, these scenes forget her 
And the stars know not one letter 
Of the legend, oft passed over, 
On the headstone in the clover. 

Yet her life was not in vain: 
Angels did she entertain; 
Though they came in human guise 
They were angels in her eyes. 

90 



DEBORAH YORK 

Children's children now revere her; 
Duty's cumbered path is clearer; 
Faltering faith obtains assurance 
From her courage and endurance. 

Many lives today inherit 
Something of her affluent spirit, 
This with increase to transmit 
For the ages' benefit. 

Since the golden bowl was broken. 
Since the final words were spoken. 
Many a knave has ceased to plot. 
Many a hero been forgot. 

Lips, whose speech our own controlled; 
Heart, that did our hearts enfold; 
Presence, gracious in her sway; 
What and where art thou today? 

Pride and pomp will quickly pass; 
Honor soon is tarnished brass; 
Fame becomes a tasteless crust; 
Dust returns again to dust; 

But afar, in highest Heaven, 
Whiter now than star-dust driven, 
Sainthood's circlet on thy brow, 
Deborah York, a queen art thou. 

91 



THE SLEEPING SOLDIER 

On the wild battlefield where the bullets were flying, 
With a ball in his breast a brave soldier was lying, 
While the roar of the cannon and cannon replying, 
And the roll of the musketry shook earth and air. 

The red ooze from his breast the gi*een turf was a-stain- 

ing; 
The light of his life with the daylight was waning; 
From his pain-parted lips came no word of complaining; 
Where the fighting was hottest his spirit was there. 

He had marched to the van where his leader com- 
manded; 
He had fall'n like a pine that the lightning has branded. 
He was left by his mates like a ship that is stranded. 
And far to the rear and a-dying he lay. 

His comrades press on in a gleaming of glory, 
But backward he sinks on his couch cold and gory; 
They shall tell to their children thereafter the story. 
His lips shall be silent forever and aye. 

9^ 



THE SLEEPING SOLDIER 

A smile lit his face, for the foe were retreating, 
And the shouts of the victors his lips were repeating. 
And true to his country his chill heart was beating, 
When over his senses a weariness crept. 

The rifles' sharp crack, the artillery's thunder, 
The whizzing of shell and their bursting asunder, 
Heaven rending above and the earth rumbling under. 
Nevermore might awake him, so soundly he slept. 

He had rushed to the wars from the dream of his wooing. 

For fame as for favor right gallantly suing. 

Stern duty each softer emotion subduing. 

In the camp, on the field — the dominion of Mars. 

And there when the dark and the daylight were blended. 
Still there when the glow of the sunset was ended. 
He slept his last sleep, undisturbed, unattended, 
Overwept by the night, overwatched by the stars. 



1862 



98 



THE CITY OF MY YOUTH 

The town I knew is sunk from sight. 

The waves above it flow; 
And still the streets are laved in light — 

The light of long ago. 

It nestles warm among its trees, 

As comes and goes the day; 
'Tis peopled with the fantasies 

That charm and cheat decay. 

I seek here what I cannot find, 
What will not come I crave — 

The recognition that would bind 
And make my heart a slave. 

The pleasant nod is not for me. 

Unstirred the placid face; 
The generation that I see 

Hath other trysting place. 

The homes oft visited before 
Are unfamiliar grown; 
The church's long-frequented door 
Remembers not its own. 

94 



THE CITY OF MY YOUTH 

The schoolroom is a haunted house; 

The creaking floors are whist; 
No pupil lingers but the mouse. 

Who will not be dismissed. 

Yet Fortune's visage doth not lack 
A smile to match its frown; 

The dial's shadow travels back 
Whereon it was gone down. 

Impetuous boyhood comes again 
With reckless rush and shout. 

Transfigured at the flaming pane, 
Unaging youth looks out. 

The dwelling place my own so long 
Withdraws its threshold bar — 

Its memories about me throng; 
The days that are not, are. 

My loved ones give me olden cheer, 

Unfaltering love and trust; 
One moment they are gathered here. 

The next and they are dust. 

O vanished city of my youth! 

Eternal are thy years. 
Thy sorrows are my joys in truth; 

Thy happiness my tears. 

95 



CHASTENING 

Lord, when Thy chastenings come. 
And desolate their home. 
Then how can any feel 
That these Thy love reveal? 

Did not His giving prove 
Our Father's tender love? ^ 
Then wherefore should we say 
His love doth take away? 

Why should His love delight 
The trusting heart to smite? 
And why, if smite He must. 
Shall any longer trust? 

Be still, complaining soul; 
On Him thy burden roll; ? 
Thy faithful friend is He, 
Who still life's end can see. 

God's giving surely shows 
That tender love He knows; 
But love that gives us breath 
As tenderly gives death. 

' 96 



CHASTENING 

Is His example vain 
Who lost that we might gain? 
Then how shall we refuse 
At His command to lose? 

But cast thine eyes about; 
A little look without, 
And see how any fare 
Who not thy losses share. 

Note how they cling to earth; 
Regard their selfish mirth; 
Not one of them for thee 
Affordeth sympathy. 

Heaven's gifts they take, and yet 
The Hand that gives forget; 
And find, till life grows sere, 
Their satisfaction here. 

Earth's pleasures having tried. 
And being satisfied. 
The joys beyond the grave 
They never learn to crave. 

But thou, since earthly gain 
With thee doth not remain, 
Art taught thereby to prize 
The riches of the skies. 

97 



CHASTENING 

Then learn, fond, foolish heart. 
To bear affliction's smart; 
For whom He chasteneth 
God loveth as He saith. 



98 



THE HEART OF OCEAN 

The grove's endearments are not thine. 

Heart of the moaning sea; 
The measures of the pahn and pine 

They murmur not for thee. 

No land bird risks despair and loss 

Among thy channels dim; 
The sea-gull only dares to toss 

On thy upheaving rim. 

Thy far beginning hath no date; 

Thy years no lines confess; 
No shadow marks thy dial-plate 

Sea-smoothed and fingerless. 

Like some uncharted asteroid. 

Or derelict of space. 
Thou art without a form and void 

And chaos is thy face. 

Thy tides forever fall and swell; 

Thy depths forever sleep; 
Thy noises to thy silence yell — 

Deep calling unto deep. 

99 



THE HEART OF OCEAN 

The argosies of Fancy's dream 
That vanished in the west; 

The argonauts thy cheating stream 
Lm*ed to her siren breast — 

The sanguine story of their woe 

In mortal anguish traced 
ObHvion's finger long ago 

Insensibly effaced. 

The pirate craft and privateer 
In slaughter's net entoiled; 

The merchantmen they grappled here 
And ruthlessly despoiled; 

The battleship that gained at last 

A requiem's renown; 
That nailed her country's colors fast 

And thundering went down : — 

All now "have suffered a sea change" 

And in thy silence lie, 
With the creations old and strange 

That never breathe nor die. 

The tumbled hulks that chaos mock 

No diver will reveal; 
The treasure, guarded by no lock, 

No cunning thief will steal. 

100 



THE HEART OP OCEAN 

Around, the caverns dark and deep 
Where phantom seamen roam; 

Above, the wastes where tempests reap 
The harvests of the foam. 

Earth has no mystery Hke thine; 

No line can fathom thee; 
What art tliou? Demon or divine? 

Heart of the moaning sea! 



101 



OUR YEARS 

As a sigh! As sweet and as sad; 

A fugitive heritage they : 
A moment to grieve and be glad : 

Our years that are passing away! 

A sigh, and a smile, and a sigh : 
A balance of sorrow and mirth: 

A birth, and a break, and to die 
And vanish forever from earth. 

To wake, and to sleep, and to wake : 
To sleep, and to wake, and to sleep; 

A bubble to rise and to break 

And melt in the measureless deep ! 

Our years ! but a gleam and a gloom ; 

A twilight with twilight to blend : 
A flash to the shadows illume 

That childhood and age comprehend! 

Our years! but a gloom and a gleam; 

A splendor that is and is not : / 

A dream that is dreamed of a dream : 

A tale that is told and forgot! 

102 



OUR YEARS 

O what then is being? and why 
Is time with mortahty rife? 

If man is to breathe but to die, 
Then what is the meaning of hfe? 

Our God, 'tis from Thee we are come: 
For Being immortal we yearn; 

Not here but beyond is our home. 
And there with our years we return. 



103 



THE OLD CHURCH ON THE HILL* 

Palid and cold as the morning star, 
On the hill the old church stands; 

A landmark tall, it is seen afar 
In the circumjacent lands. 

' With cloud or with sunshine overhead. 

With bloom and decay below; 
Guiding the living, guarding the dead. 
It watches the century go. 

Here, long ago, the savage stood, 
With be-scarred and painted breast; 

And here, by the never resting flood. 
He lies in unbroken rest. 

The conquering pale-face too is here. 

They slumber not far apart; — 
God's children and Nature's — both lie near 

To His and to Nature's heart. 

We read on the fading marble page. 

Such names as we speak to-day; 
But He reads names of a race and age 

Whose language has passed away. 

104 



THE OLD CHURCH ON THE HILL* 

They reared no fane for their praise and prayers, 

Nor pondered ponderous tome; 
They worshipped their fathers' God and theirs 

Beneath Heavens' ampler dome. 

Let priests in their old cathedrals lie. 

And the kings their abbeys fill; 
But these sleep well 'neath the older sky. 

On the windy, Indian hill. 



Farewell old church ! I'll remember thee 

On thy breezy swell of graves, 
As a Pharos, lighting life's dark sea, 

And taming its raging waves. 

1878 

*NoTE. — The meeting house of the first (Congregational) church 
of West SpriDgfield, Mass., was erected in the year 1800, and it was a 
provision of the will of John Ashley, who gave the society a consider- 
able sum as a fund for the support of the gospel, that the society 
should worship on this spot, and the building be kept in good repair, 
for one hundred years. The edifice, which is a good and well pre- 
served specimen of the church architecture of New England at the 
commencement of the century, stands on an elevation at a bend of the 
Connecticut, and may be seen at a great distance. It has a church- 
yard adjacent, a part of which seems to have been an Indian burial 
ground. 



105 



"THE OLD CHURCH ON THE HILL' 

Far down beneath thy shifting vane 

The dead unchanging He; 
The river murmurs its refrain 

And ever hurries by. 

A hundred years and more the Hght 

And shade on thee have striven; 
Thou art famiHar with the night 

And all the stars of heaven. 

The levin bolt has touched thy spire; 

But rain, and hail, and snow, 
And all the elemental ire 

Have failed to lay thee low. 

A stern serenity is thine 

Beneath inconstant skies; 
Within are memories divine 

And sweet old melodies. 

For here, released from toil and care, 

The steadfast people came; 
The preachers climbed the pulpit stair 

A hundred years the same. 

106 



"THE OLD CHURCH ON THE HILL" 

The prayer and praise these courts did fill. 

The messages of cheer, 
Were vocal in thy silence still 

Were ears attuned to hear. 

Thy congregations all are gone, 

Save what around thee lies. 
And we will leave thee all alone 

With thy dear memories. 

1909 



107 



THE PHANTOM COASTERS 

The coasters of the past are back, — 
The Emblem, Effort, Enterprise; 

*Twas long ago they went to rack. 
But lo, they loom before my eyes. 

Below the cliffs that saw them strike 
And foaming breakers round them fold, 

Their skeletons are hidden, like 
The pirate's Bible and his gold. 

Yet now, as in their golden prime. 
The circles of the sea they sweep : 

They pass behind the veil of Time 
And traverse the primeval deep. 

About them howl forgotten gales; 

Above are prehistoric skies; 
The fleet of Greece beside them sails 

And Troy town's wreck behind them lies. 



108 



DUCKY DADDLES 

Ducky Daddies, Ducky Daddies, 

Why it is I do not know 
You and I and Tommy Traddles 

Ever older had to grow. 

You, at least, should both forever 
Stay as when I knew you first; 

He should not the school charm sever 
You should please and tease as erst. 

Such a noodle Tommy makes him — 

Self in judge's wig sedate! 
Who cares now what torment takes him? 

But his skeletons were great! 

And the canings Creakle gave him 
Made him friends by many a score. 

But nobody wants to have him 
'Neath his pillow any more. 

Why? Because he isn't Traddles 
Any longer. Don't you see? 

And too, dear Ducky Daddies, — 
But I will not hateful be. 

109 



DUCKY DADDLES 

You and I croquet were playing 
Only several (?) summers back. 

Now, grave nonsense you are saying. 
In the parlor, you and Jack. 

Only think about it. Ducky, 

I am used to being told, 
I'm a gray -beard (how unlucky!) 

But you need not be so old. 

Do not hurry life a minute, 

'Tis a race you can't refuse; 
Though today you long to win it, 

Bye and bye you'd rather lose. 

Though my heart your wiles have plundered 

I must always call you friend; 
Though my years become a hundred 

You are "Ducky" to the end. 



110 



THE HAUNTED RUIN 

All houses wherein men have lived and died are haunted houses. 

— Longfellow. 

The place, untouched by vice or crime. 

Is yielding to decay; 
And patient Nature bides her time 

To gain her ancient sway. 

Nearer and nearer, year by year. 

The wild wood's tangle creeps; 
And springtime hints of harvests here 

That autumn never reaps. 

The graceless squirrel frolics nigh 

And looks askance at me; 
A houseless vagabond am I, 

Ijord of the manor he. 

The spring, that slaked the stranger's thirst 

With mud and weeds is filled; 
Where the shy robins builded erst 

Their bold descendants build. 

Ill 



THE HAUNTED RUIN 

A desecrated violet bed, 

A pansy, weed-entombed, 
A rose, of desolation dead, 

Tell where a garden bloomed. 

The lilac tall, the walk beside. 
Whose breath pervades the air. 

The housewife, when she came, a bride, 
Transplanted fondly there. 

The winter storms have rent the roof, 
And in these chambers still, 

Wherefrom the human holds aloof, 
The wild thing has his will. 

The hare comes here to multiply 

Her fair and foolish kind; 
And Reynard sly, intent to spy 

A covert to his mind. 

Yon blackened pile despoiled, undone, 

Bemoans its ravished fire, 
Like desolation brooding on 

The embers of desire. 

The door-step dreams of frequent feet 

That gladdened it before; 
And phantoms fill the vanished seat 

Beside the vanished door. 

11^ 



THE HAUNTED RUIN 

Like homesick birds from some strange coast, 

The spectral guests are come, 
Remembering the oldtime toast 

"A house that is a home." 

They call to mind the hostess' smile 

The chimney's cheery flame; 
And evening's hour again beguile 

With song, and dance and game. 

But where are they, — the children born. 

Cradled, and nurtured here; 
Who broke the stillness of the morn, — 

Rivals of chanticleer.? 

One prayer they prayed, one scheme they laid. 
Their aims and dreams the same; 

One image in hfe's glass they made 
Till love's estrangement came. 

Now, in the golden fleece's quest 

Two, reckless, roam the deep; 
And two, in the delusive west, 

Elusive fortunes heap. 

The rest, where troubles ne'er betide, 

And storms to stillness yield, 
Sleep, as they slept here, side by side 

In yonder weed-grown field. 

113 



THE HAUNTED RUIN 

But lo the genius of the place, — 

The demon of unrest; 
A vagrant now, in evil case, 

With all the ills oppressed! 

He comes, mayhap, from Lethe's gloom; 

His sunken eyes are dim; 
Or yet, the portal of the tomb 

Has swung ajar for him — 

Vacant his visage as of yore; 

Disconsolate his air; 
He falters at the vacant door 

And joins the phantoms there. 



114 



AT SIMON'S HOUSE 

She seeks her Saviour as she is, 

Her sin confessing; 
She knows no other way than this 

To win His blessing. 

She seeks the Saviour where He is; 

*Tis hard to enter, 
But shame and scorn alHed for this 

Do not prevent her. 

She comes to Him no gift to ask; 

She brings the Master 
The choicest thing she has, her flask 

Of alabaster. 

She stands where He reclines at meat. 

Derision eyes them; 
Her tears, they wet His dusty feet. 

Her hair, it dries them. 

She comprehends sin's discontent 

And disappointment, 
As humbly, dumbly, penitent. 

She pours the ointment. 

115 



AT SIMON'S HOUSE 

Her burdened spirit He uplifts 

And not accuses; 
Though well He knows her life, her gift's 

Unhallowed uses. 

She entered in contrition's mien, 

In sore affliction; 
He sends her forth in peace, with e'en 

His benediction. 

O sinner, let not shame nor hate 

Th}^ spirit trample; 
But come at once, and imitate 

Her brave example. 

Forget it all — their evil heart, 

Thy ill behavior; 
And where He is, and as thou art, 

Seek thou the Saviour. 

Bring Him thy gift; though stained with sin, 

He will receive it. 
The vilest still may enter in. 

Dost thou believe it? 



116 



TO DELLIUS 

(Horace — Book II. Ode III) 

O Dellius, when there blows an adverse wind 
See thou preservest an untroubled mind! 
And when prosperity attests thy worth 
Refrain as well from unbecoming mirth; 
For thou must die and vanish from the earth. 

Whether thy life be spent in sorrow's ways 

Or in the griefless flow of festive days 

Thou lollest at thy ease in pastures where 
The hours are dreamed away remote from care, 
Choicest Falernian thy comrade there. 

Where the vast pine and poplar pale have made 
Their blended boughs a roof for social shade, 

And where between its winding banks the stream, 
That babbler-in-an-undertone, doth seem 
To shiver by, fugacious as a dream. 

Bring hither wine, be lavish of perfume 
And the too-quickly-fading roses* bloom, 

117 



TO DELLIUS 

While youth remains with opportunity, ^ 

And their dark threads awhile (how fruitlessly) ! 

Are left unfingered by the Sisters three. 

Soon wilt thou leave thy widely purchased grove, 

Thy mansion with its satisfying loves. 
Thy villa that the tawny Tiber laves, — 
Wilt leave them all, and to the wind and waves 
Thy heir will cast the wealth affection saves. 

It matters not if riches thee were lent, 
From ancient Inachus thy long descent. 
Or if ignoble and of beggar birth 
Beneath the naked heavens they flung thee forth. 
The victim of unpitying Orcus' wrath. 

We are all hurried to the self -same bourn, 

The lots alike are shaken in the urn 
That soon or late our destiny will mark 
And send us helpless, by the fateful bark. 
To endless exile and the boundless dark. 



118 



BENEATH THE PINE 

Beneath the shadows of this tree 
I laid the forms of children three : 
George, Agnes, Edith were the names 
We knew them by on earth; but now. 
In splendor that time's twilight shames, 
A crown on each unsullied brow, 
What names they bear I do not know. 

The first to go was George; his life 

Was ten sweet months. Then came our strife 

With death ; and then it seemed as though 

This dreary, empty world would be 

A cavern for the ebb and flow 

Of waters of a sunless sea. 

Until the end for mine and me. 

Two summer days was Agnes' stay; 
Then, whence she came, she stole away. 
The light of heaven was in her eyes; 
She seemed to hear the songs of heaven. 
And feel the breath of Paradise, 
Like Hesper on the brow of even, 
And, ah, our hearts again were riven. 

119 



BENEATH THE PINE 

Then Edith, with the eyes serene: 
The angels claimed her at fifteen. 
Their faces I cannot recall; 
Compassionating my distress, 
She watches from my study wall. 
And, soothing me with mute caress. 
Increases still in loveliness. 

Dear Edith, this soft summer day 
Thy daisies on thy grave I lay. 
And find here, by the modest stone, 
Whereto it shyly seems to cling, 
A clover-blossom, all alone — 
A shrinking, slender, snowy thing 
Like thee — June's fragrant offering. 

Three little graves. The children three 
My loving Father lent to me, 
And claimed again with right divine 
And equal love, are lying here 
Beneath the shadows of this pine; 
Remote from change, or pain, or fear. 
Or footfalls of the passing year. 

Yet are ye here my children three? 
Beneath the shadows of this tree 
Do ye sojourn with darkened eyes? 
Nay, ye abide in splendor bright, 

120 



BENEATH THE PINE 

In ample mansions of the skies. 
Beyond our darksome day and night, 
Yours are eternal years of light. 

And here I stand, and muse, and wait. 

No longer now importunate; 

No more insisting that I know 

How Providence should answer prayer; 

But as God wills I want it so. 

Mv treasures are in heaven, and where 

The treasure is the heart is there. 



121 



EDITH 

Time, that doth take what none would give, 

Whose wisdom men deride, 
Hath taught me, child, that I can live 

Without thee by my side. 

That time disedgeth grief for me 

I count almost a crime; 
But wherefore speak of time to thee 

Since thou art done with time? 

Thou mournest not thy ravished years 

In heaven, thy dwelling-place, 
For God hath wiped away the tears 

From thy unclouded face. 

I grope in ignorance, alone; 

Contentious cares are mine; 
Thou knowest now as thou art known: 

The peace of Christ is thine. 

Thy heavenly form I cannot see. 

Thy voice I cannot hear; 
I talk with One who talks with thee,. 

Whom alway thou art near. 

122 



EDITH 

The lesson 'twas so hard to learn 
A comfort 'tis to know — 

Thou never canst to me return, 
But I to thee must go. 

Thy earthly pains are ended now. 
And all this mortal strife 

Is alien unto thee, for thou 
Hast entered into life. 

Small satisfaction can I take 
On earth since thou hast died; 

But when T in His likeness wake 
I shall be satisfied. 



122 



CONSOLATION 

It binds my spirit like a spell, 

Relief hath time denied; 
The world is empty as a shell 

Since gentle Edith died. 

When fancy paints her saintly grace 

My heart to reconcile, 
It only counterfeits her face 

And simulates her smile. 

When memory recalls her voice. 

Her laughter's melody. 
It brings not back the tender joys 

That have forsaken me. 

Small consolation hath the thought 
That others grief have known; 

Though pain in every heart is brought 
It lessens not my own. 

But when with one of old I cry, 
"Was ever grief like mine?" 

It stills my passion to reply 
That sorrow is divine; 

124 



CONSOLATION 

That One who took my nature bears. 
Although in heaven the chief; 

His human crown of sorrow wears. 
And fathoms every grief; 

And that his sympathy's embrace. 

Wide as eternity 
For those who look upon His face. 

Is not withheld from me. 



U5 



HEAVEN 

O Heaven, how glorious thou art. 
What splendor thine must be. 

Since all things beautiful and pure 
Remind the soul of thee! 

O Heaven, how vast thy spaces are! 

The gems that midnight wears 
Are mansions our ungrudging Lord 

For our abode prepares. 

O Heaven, how free from want thou art! 

How filled with riches rare ! 
And all the good from toil released. 

Are taking treasure there. 

O Heaven, what blessedness is thine. 
Where God hath fixed His throne. 

Where sin will never find its way. 
And sorrow is unknown ! 

O Heaven, how dear to me thou art! 

I think, with joy and pain, 
Of loved ones there who wait for me. 

But come not here again. 

126 



HEAVEN 

O Heaven, how do I long for thee. 

So glorious thou art! 
When will thy splendor fill my eyes. 

Thy holiness my heart? 



127 



LIEUTENANT ADOLPHUS W. GREELEY 

Genial companion of my army days, 
Here, sitting in the soft, enchanted Hght 
Of home, before my glowing anthracite, 

I think of wastes of snow, of iced-closed bays, 

Of the near North with its auroral blaze; 
Of ghostlike Nature in her gown of white — 
Somnambulist that roameth through the night, 

With horror fascinating all that gaze. 

But more than all beside, I think, dear friend, 

Of thee and thy heroic band forlorn, 
For whose return so many prayers ascend. 

Now waiting for the tardy Arctic morn, 
Determined still to battle to the end 

And win *'the victory of endurance born." 



128. 



AT BREAD LOAF INN 

Above the woody summits of these hills, 

Whose wavy outlines gird and wall around 

The "cup-like hollow" where is Bread Loaf Inn, 

(A pleasant place to spend vacation time), 

A silence broods the sultry summer day. 

That seems like a perpetual repose. 

The clouds that hang above us in the vault 

Of heaven are anchored, and their shadows lie 

Unmoving patches on the forest trees. 

A smoky haze to Bread Loaf mountain clings — 

Broad-shouldered Bread Loaf, with his garb of spruce. 

Along this winding vale and on the slopes 
Within the clearings are the Ripton farms. 
The graveyard is beyond the brook below, 
The grass uncut about its marble slabs. 
The grain is ripening in the fertile fields. 
Beneath my windows, past the apple trees, 
I hear the rattling noise the mower makes 
Who cuts the daisied grass with his machine; 
I hear him calling to his horses now. 
That halt and start obedient to his voice, 

129 



AT BREAD LOAF INN 

Like human-kind. I hear the prattle, too. 

Of children with their nurses on the walk — 

This hostelry is children's paradise. 

The loungers on the broad verandas read 

Apart, or sit in groups to chat or sew. 

Or doze, or smoke, and all without a care. 

Behind the vines that screen them from the sun. 

A gentle breeze is stirring in the leaves; 

It feels its way like fingers of the blind. 

And finds and fans my face; I know not whence 

It comes, nor whither goes; I hardly know 

The north or south, the east or west, nor care 

To know; I scarcely hold in mind my name. 

My mind is empty like a sea-searched shell 

That asks not for another occupant. 

To me this is a dreamy lotus land, 

A land of peace and sweet forgetfulness, 

A land whose summer is an afternoon, 

A land where sings the happy oriole, 

A land whose summer nights are always cool, 

A land of showers and perpetual green, 

A land to me without a sigh or care. 

Beyond the summer-house, in the ravine. 

The brook runs on, bridged only by the trunks 

Of fallen trees, where patient anglers love 

With skilful hand to cast and cast the fly, 

And snatch the shining troutlets from the pool; 

Where youths and maidens stroll, and children wade; 

130 



AT BREAD LOAF INN 

Where young and old and middle-aged resort 

To while away the long, bright, summer hours. 

And oh, if earth holds an Elysium, 

It is not in some Eastern palace grand. 

With sacred groves and ancient memories. 

With fountains playing in a perfumed air. 

With songs of bul-bul and of nightingale. 

Where Art and Nature make a Paradise, 

Where brutes are deified, but men are slaves. 

And God is not in all the range of thought; 

'Tis here, where every man was born a king. 

Where summer's heat today is on the hills, 

But winter's blast will purify the air, 

And trouble's trials purify the soul. 

And man with Nature climb the slope to heaven. 



131 



THE BROOK 

Bright mountain brook that flowest at my feet, 
Forever laving this unheeding stone. 
The music of thy liquid monotone 

Unchanging all day long dost thou repeat. 

Musing I gaze upon thee from my seat, 
Not lonely, altho never more alone. 
Since thou art company and I am one 

To whom thy noise is melody complete. 

Would I could daily go my way like thee : 
My voice as soft as thine, my smile as bright. 

My course as fearless toward that mighty sea 
That all the streams of life awaits; the night 

Of gorge and chasm imthought of; my delight 
To do each day the work appointed me. 



13d 



THE LAKE OF THE LOST PLEIAD* 

Enchanted lakelet ! crystal mountain well ! 

Bright dimple on grave Nature's placid face ! 
Some wizard long enthralled thee with his spell 

And held the secret of thy hiding-place. 

All round thy rim primeval forests frown; 

Their timid tenants venture here alone; 
The midnight moon, in rapture gazing down. 

Regards thy beauty and forgets her own. 

Today thy story was revealed to me, 

Who spied the breeze thy pensive face caress; 

With shouts I set imprisoned Echo free 

And learned the charm of thy sad loveliness. 

A Pleiad banished from her home in heaven; 

Her virgin, vestal flame went out on high; 
Sterope, fairest of the sisters seven. 

Came down to earth, where bleeding love may die. 

Her affluent affection spent in vain; 

Her malady beyond the hope of cure; 
Since sister-sympathy increased her pain. 

She fled the anguish she could not endure. 

133 



THE LAKE OF THE LOST PLEL^D* 

How long she wandered here we may not know. 
Nor read the story of her mundane years, 

Till heavenly powers, pitying her woe, 

Transformed its bm-den to this vase of tears. 

And here she rests; while daily, evermore. 
The cup that evening empties morn refills; 

Her kindred Pleiads grieving as before. 

Her peace protected by these guardian hills. 

* Note. — Some call the seventh Pleiad Sterope, and relate that 
she became invisible from shame, because she alone had loved a 
mortal man. 



134 



SEA SORROW 

Sit still and hear the last of our sea-sorrow. 

The Tempest, Act I, Scene II. 

We lay along the steamer's deck, 

Beneath an awning's screen; 
Of time and tide we did not reck; 
Our envy was the cloudlet fleck 

That sailed the sky's demesne. 

The cloudlet seemed soul-satisfied, 

As one divinely shriven; 
It roamed the empyrean wide. 
Dissolving in the sunlight's tide 

And sinking into heaven. 

As seabird, poised on balanced wing. 

The tempest sweeps before. 
With measured might, and shuddering, 
The good ship, like a living thing. 

The heaving deep drove o'er. 

Prone on her cumbered deck we lay 
While day and dark were twined, 

135 



SEA SORROW 

As through the Gulf she took her way, 
Then, northward, flung the Atlantic's spray 
And left the South behind. 

A crowded hospital, she rocked 

On the deserted deep : 
Without, the sea her sorrow mocked; 
Within, disease despair unlocked. 

And anguish tortured sleep. 

I feel to-day the vessel's quiver. 

The rattle, throb, and jar : 
The hush returns, as if the river 
Of life had flowed away forever. 

And bared its moaning bar. 

The measured tramp the silence breaks 

As, borne by comrades four. 
His final march a soldier makes. 
Where reveille no longer wakes. 

And taps will hush no more. 

The prayer is said : the shotted shroud 

Is swallowed by the sea; 
The sobbing engines groan aloud; 
The heads are lifted that were bowed. 

And on our course are we. 

136 



SEA SORROW 

Ah me ! it was a week of pain. 

With frequent pause Hke this : 
With many a burial in the main, 
And many a prayer that seemed in vain. 
But ne'er a mother's kiss. 

We wondered,as we sHd them down, 

How soon our turn would come; 
And then aside such thoughts were thrown 
For what the sea can never drown, — 
The memories of home. 

The last one in delirium tossed 
From dawn till set of sun: \ 

Visions of home his visage crost; 

His final fight was fought, and lost. 
Though braver ne'er was won. 

We gave him, 'neath the watchful stars. 

The flag for winding sheet : 
His memory no stigma mars; 
For medals he wore honor's scars; 

He never knew defeat. 

We gave them all to the great tomb 

That does not know decay; 
Where alway there is foaming bloom. 
And evermore, till Doomsday's boom, 

'Twill be Memorial Day. 

137 



TENNYSON 

As one each evening with a new surprise, 
Spieth sweet Hesper, from the fading West 
Filhng with hght, — largest and loveHest 

In the returning hosts that throng the skies, 

What time the twihght-gates of Paradise, 
Awhile ajar, reveal the realms of Rest — 
Canaan unreached — whose vision makes us blest 

With sacred sadness, till our tears uprise; — 

So, ever smitten with a new delight. 
We turn to thee, — Hesper of Poesy, — 

Subdued effulgence, — depth of perfect light. 
Drawn from rare twilights upon sky and sea; 

Fi'om dim-lit lowlands, sombre solitudes. 

Autumnal splendors of the waning woods. 



138 



THE WELLESLEY FLOAT 

June 18, 1901 

Swan-like in grace and rhythm-like in motion. 
The fairy navy skims the fairy ocean. 

In shade and sheen, with deft manoeuvers pass 
The squadrons cruising over crinkling glass. 

Like flashing fire-flies, idling to and fro, 
The trim canoes illumined come and go. 

In the dim sky the crescent moon is hung ; 
Enchantment's glamour o'er the scene is flung, 

For those entranced who crowd the curved shore; 
Is this a witching dream? Can it be more? 

'Tis surely some magician's mockery; 
Such loveliness could never really be. 

The shells, converging to a centre now. 
Assemble star-wise, mooring bow to bow. 

139 



THE WELLESLEY FLOAT 

A brighter light's ilhiminating stream, 
And boats and rowers all transfigured seem. 

The clustered crews a moment's space are still; 
Anon their songs the listening silence thrill. 

Dreaming of happiness they hope to find, 
Singing of days and tasks they leave behind, 

They win applause. But ah ! they start the tears 
Of some recalling their ecstatic years 

(Ere trouble came and Heaven denied their prayers) 
When youth and health and happiness were theirs. 

But now the rushing rockets soar on high. 
And flame-like flowers blossom in the sky; 

Their loosened petals showered on the air. 
The pageant closes, and the scene is bare. 



140 



AUTUMNAL LEAVES 

No more ye sway and shimmer in the sky, 
In happy fellowship together bound, 
But swirl and scatter o'er the alien ground. 

Strange to each other in adversity. 

Forgotten is the amorous melody 

That, in the equinoctial roar, was drowned, 
As up and down ye wander, sorrow-crowned, 

Like Jephthah's daughter who must childless die. 

Yet, as the stars unquenched, unflickering, burn 
While daylight chases darkness round the sphere, 

The germ of life in dissolution's urn 

Heeds not the pressure of its swathings sere; 

And ever, as aforetime, shall return 
The eflflorescence of the opening year. 



141 



THE OLD SHIP-YARD 

The ship-yard that I knew so well 

Lies sepulchered below the hill ; 
Some strange enchantment on it fell. 

The mallet and the ax to still. 

And after many and many a year, 

I stand by its neglected grave, 
The noises of the past to hear 

And see the Pilgrim take the wave; 

For launching-day is here again i 

With throngs, and cheers and hearts elate; 

The tide, as punctual as then, 

Is brimming now and will not wait. 

The shores and spurs are knocked away; 

The people, motionless at gaze; 
The masts, and trees and buildings sway; 

The bark is gliding from her ways. 

The flags are snapping in the sky 
And on her decks, from side to side, 

The line is rushing, with the cry 

Of "Roll her, roll her," ringing wide. 

14^ 



THE OLD SHIP-YARD 

The mimic waves that cm*! and break 

Repeat the murmur of the main; 
Whose winds and waters wait to make 

The joy of the occasion vain. 

By night and day, by day and night 
She sailed to meet the rolling rack; 

She vanished out of mortal sight, 
And only now her wraith comes back. 

Released by the relenting sea. 

From mist and murk and sea birds' scream. 
To people, as of old, for me 

The voiceless yard, the vacant stream. 



143 



MARY 



' A violet by a mossy stone, 
Half hidden from the eye. 

Fair as a star when only one 
Is shining in the sky.' 

— Wordsworth. 



The house is changed where Mary lived. 

And, passing to and fro, 
I marveled that so many grieved 

That she from earth must go. 

A quiet httle maid was she, 

And very sweet and shy; 
I knew not what she was to me 

Until she came to die. 

A single decade was she here. 

And then she slipped away; 
She vanished from the waning year 

And from the broadening day. 

Her coming brought a happy face 

That recent sorrow stilled; 
Her going made a vacant place 

That never can be filled. 

144 



MARY 

Beyond the filmy, flying drift, 

Beyond the stars she fled; 
And when my gaze aloft I lift 

I do not count her dead. 

Her grave is where the sunshine spills 
Its wealth o'er nature's charms; 

Around it are the sheltering hills. 
Beneath, the quiet farms. 

Does Mary ever think of earth? 

Does she come back again 
To **mix her fancies" with our mirth. 

And with our grief as then.? 

Does she resume the vacant place 

And fill the empty seat? 
Is there a glory in her face 

The sun cannot repeat? 

We cannot tell what — more or less — 

To angel life is given; 
We do not know and cannot guess 

The ministries of Heaven. 

When death anoints our closing eyes 

Perchance their vision is 
That only fancied barriers rise 

Betwixt that life and this. 

145 



MARY 

That parting is a name — no more 

Whatever mortals say; 
That Mary has not gone before, 

But dwells with us to-day. 



146 



'TIS UNAVAILING NOW 

'Tis unavailing now, 

Bewailing wasted years, 
To shed remorseful tears. 
To grieve o'er gifts abused, 
Or talents left unused. 

Is unavailing now. 



'Tis unavailing now 
To tell of work undone. 
Of souls unwatched, unwon, 
Of warning words unspoken. 
Of bread of life unbroken — 

'Tis unavailing now. 



'Tis unavailing now 
On Memory's cold floor 
Our losses to outpour; 
To hoard them up with pains. 
As misers hoard their gains, 

Is unavailing now. 

147 



'TIS UNAVAILING NOW 

'Tis unavailing now, 
Eating our daily bread. 
The evil days to dread. 
To falter in the fight, 
When wrong repulses right. 

Is unavailing now. 

'Tis unavailing now 
Our insignificance 
To plead in failure's 'fence. 
Or fault to find with fate 
Because we are not great — 

'Tis unavailing now. 

'Tis unavailing now 
To heave a single sigh 
That we so soon must die. 
To pray that life may end, 
If fortune doth not mend, 

Is unavailing now. 

'Tis unavailing now, 
As if our dead were lost. 
To grudge what love hath cost. 
To weep above our dead. 
For tender words unsaid, 

Is unavailing now. 

148 



TIS UNAVAILING NOW 

What then availeth now? 

To recognize the power 

That clothes the passing hour; 

The gifts of God to use; 

No duty to refuse; 
'Tis this availeth now. 

What then availeth now? 

All work undone to do; 

All souls unwon to woo; 

The warning word to speak; 

The bread of life to break; 
'Tis this availeth now. 

What then availeth now? 
To count our losses gain 
When cruel self is slain; 
To reckon gain but loss 
When gain is only dross; 

'Tis this availeth now. 

What then availeth now? 

To battle while we may 

The evils of today; 

To smite with justice's rod. 

And leave results with God; 
'Tis this availeth now. 

149 



'TIS UNAVAILING NOW 

What then availeth now? 
To fling away our shame 
Because we won not fame; 
For failure still to own 
The blame is ours alone; 

*Tis this availeth now. 

What then availeth now? 

To talk with shortening breath 
Of life and not of death, 
Since in a life well spent 
Death's but an incident, 

*Tis this availeth now. 

What then availeth now? 
As if it had no end 
To give our love, not lend. 
Since love that seeks rebate 
Is next of kin to hate, 

'Tis this availeth now. 

What then availeth now? 
As often as we may 
The tender word to say; 
Then tears above our dead 
It will be sweet to shed. 

This — this availeth now. 

150 



GARFIELD 

Brave sufferer, pausing betwixt life and death. 
Now gazing into hopeful, anxious eyes. 
Regarding now eternal mysteries ! 
"Be patient still," the gracious Master saith, 
"A prayer for thee rises with every breath; 
Heaven, not impregnable, is stormed with sighs. 
And praying souls in Heaven have strong allies. 
But God all prayer His own way answereth. 
Remember that I chose not gain but loss. 
With shame and sorrow and the bitter cross. 

And death, not life, at last, for thine and thee. 
Canst thou not pray with me, *Thy will be done,' 
Leaving thy matter in my hands alone. 
And die, if there be need, for mine and me?" 



151 



JOE 

My darling's silent pet, 
It seems too strange to be 

That he is with us yet 
And gone so long is she. 

To curl upon her bed 

He came at her command; 

She smoothed his willing head 
With her thin, lily hand. 

He went and came again 
And loved by her to be; 

He goes and comes as then. 
But nevermore comes she. 

He used to heed her call — 
Her voice was soft and low; 

I wonder if at all 
He listens for it now. 

While to and fro he steals 
As noiseless as a ghost, 

I wonder if he feels 

A sense of something lost; 

152 



JOE 

If, thinking of her yet, 
And loving her no less, 

He longs to pay the debt 
Of many a fond caress. 

I see him go and come, 
Uncertain what to do, 

And wonder if, though dumb. 
He is a mourner too. 

Of time he had a shred, 

And she eternity; 
Yet he sleeps on her bed, 

And in her grave sleeps she. 

What is it we forget 

When oft and oft we say 

That he is with us vet 
And she is gone away? 

In her eternal place. 
Among the cherubim. 

His speck of time and space 
She never envies him. 



153 



YOU AND I 

Not he who lays it on the sheK, 

But he who spends his talent saves it; 

He gives indeed who gives himself, 
And best or worst is his who craves it. 

A thousand wish our work success; 

One brings us cheer because he speaks it; 
A common thing is happiness; 

He only never finds who seeks it. 

The atom with the supreme sun 

Of Nature's plan was made partaker; 

Alike has each his course to run, 
And show the wisdom of its Maker. 

The steady seasons come and go; 

The constant needle strangely falters; 
The moon-drawn sea sways to and fro; 

Opinions change : truth never alters. 

We may resist our foe's assaults. 

His sneers that sting, his blows that batter; 
Correction of our daily faults 

We find another, harder matter. 

154 



YOU AND I 

Self has no claims when duty calls; 

Our destinies receive our shaping : 
Escape we may from prison walls, 

But from ourselves there's no escaping. 

The cruel conquests of the sword 

Bring fleeting fame that soldiers sigh for; 

The cheering smile and winning word 

Bring love that thousands pine and die for. 

An accident, a lucky star 

Might lead us to the abbey's niches; 
Not what we have, but what we are 

Is the imperishable riches. 

Is there a course we should pursue? 

Through ruin's realm we must pursue it. 
Is there a work for us to do? 

Though death confront us we must do it. 

Not how to die, but how to live, 

Demands our care and best endeavor; 

For character its light will give 

When sun and stars are quenched forever. 



155 



ELEONORA 

How many years have passed away 
Since thy bloom was the bloom of May, 
It puzzles me to think to-day, — 
Eleonora. 

Love found thee like a sweet surprise; 
He looked from thy Italian's eyes 
And brought the blush of Paradise, — 
Eleonora. 

None knoweth what the years may bring. 

For joy is ever on the wing. 

And trouble to the heart doth cling, — 

Eleonora. 

Sunk were thy eyes and white thy hair 
When hope had yielded to despair. 
And Sorrow's mantle thou didst wear, — 
Eleonora. 

But sorrow now to peace hath turned; 
Its use is found, its lesson learned. 
And sympathy no more is spurned, — 
Eleonora. 

156 



ELEONORA 

Thy dreams no more the vision shun 
Of boats adrift from sun to sun 
And seamen dying one by one, — 
Eleonora : 

Of eyes within whose depths the flame 
Of love was ashes when there came 
No more from ashen hps thy name, — 
Eleonora; 

Of fever on a foreign shore; 

Of prayers that call for thee no more; 

Of dust thou never bendedst o'er, — 

Eleonora. 

The sea and death their eyelids press; 
The sea and death wrought thy distress; 
The sea and death are pitiless, — 
Eleonora. 

Husband and son to thee were given; 
Husband and son from thee were riven ; 
Now thy affections are in heaven, — 
Eleonora. 

Affliction is not all in vain; 
Loss understood becometh gain; 
An angel's is the face of Pain, — 
Eleonora. 

157 



ELEONORA 

Death will no more life's trust betray; 
Youth hath returned to thee for aye : 
The cruel sea hath passed away, — 
Eleonora. 



158 



TEARS FOR THE DEAD 

Tears for the dead 
Why do ye shed 

Over her bier? 
Beautiful brow. 
Pure as the snow. 

Never so dear. 



Tears for the dead 
Why do ye shed, — 

Tears of distress? 
Never again 
Pillow of pain 

Her face shall press. 



Tears for the dead 
Why do ye shed, — 

Tears of despair? 
Though she may ne'er 
Come to you here. 

Ye may go there. 

159 



TEARS FOR THE DEAD 

Tears for the dead 
Why do ye shed 

Penitent tears? 
She up in heaven 
All hath forgiven, 

Banish your fears. 

Tears for the dead 
Why do ye shed, — 

Tears that accuse? 
Ever to name 
Death in his blame 

Love must refuse. 

Tears for the dead 
Why do ye shed 

Over her bier? 
Beautiful clay! 
Take it away; 

She is not here. 



160 



ARTHUR 

It was a day of anguish, rimmed with hate; 

With trouble brooding over land and sea, 

Rack all aloft and breakers on the lee, 
The winds adverse, the waves importunate. 

Accepting elevation reverently, 

A mourner yet a master, fearlessly 
Didst take command of the good Ship of State. 

Thou hast commanded well; thy term is done; 

To-day thou art our fellow-citizen; 
And few will say thou hast not honor won. 

Or call thee "great by accident" again; 
And when one prays, "God bless thee," there is none 

In the wide land but will respond, Amen. 



161 



THE LAND OF BEULAH 

Bright land of Beulah, beatific mount. 
Where the celestial city showeth plain; 

Thy girdling river is the fabled fount 

Where they who lave, perennial youth obtain. 

Beyond, the myriad mansions of the blest 
Kindle and glow in never-clouded skies; 

Here, while they gaze upon the realms of rest 
Immortal yearning cleanses mortal eyes. 

No sorrow enters this sequestered place. 
Nor party strife, nor rivalry of trade, 

Nor family dissension, nor a trace 

Of all the heartache selfishness has made. 

The circled year is a serener June; 

Remote from March's and November's frown; 
The dateless day is an unwaning noon, 

The charmed sun forgetful to go down. 

Beneath her peace the spirit throbs and thrills. 
As heaves the deep beneath the wings of calm; 

While, like the dew, from depths divine, distills 
The harmony of Heaven's eternal psalm. 

162 



THE LAND OF BEULAH 

But friends and treasure are beyond the stream 
That 'twixt them and the beck'ning splendor rolls. 

And while their home they view as in a dream, 
A sweet nostalgia subdues their souls. 

Accusing memory is soothed to sleep; 

Relentless Nemesis allows release; 
Only the shiver of the diver's leap, 

A moment's pang, — and then abiding peace. 

I keep my journey on the heavenward way. 

To gain its goal my expectation fair; 
The land of Beulah draweth near today. 

And still I long, and dread, to find me there. 



163 



AT A DOG'S RESTING-PLACE 

Jack 
{Mon f autre chien) 

Part of the sylvan scene 
Where the leaves whisper and the boughs embrace, 
And the lake's lilied splendor shines between. 

Is the dog's resting-place. 

The sunlight streaming down 
The dark earth quickens all the summer day 
As though it still were claiming for its own 

The light that's passed away. 

The snowflakes, when tliey fall, 
From Nature's memory efface poor Jack, 
But the great Being who remembers all 

Bids springtime call him back. 

I doubt not the great sun 
And stars, in their diurnal journeyings. 
With as deep interest regard this one 

As tombs of Egypt's kings. 

164 



AT A DOG'S RESTING-PLACE 

No, he is not forgot; 
Regret is voiced by every vagrant wind; 
The shade of sorrow haunts this lovely spot; 

Who sees her not is bUnd. 

So is it oft with men; 
Who least attempts it highest writes his name* 
Wealth, honor, glory, turn to naught again; 

The cheat of cheats is fame. 

No tear unheeded falls; 
Heaven sent man grief — a boon beneficent; 
The queenly college with its groves and halls 

Is a child's monument. 

These shrines will long remain; 
Here willing feet their pilgrimage will make, 
While Learning yields her pleasure and her pain. 

And hearts are glad and ache. 



165 



PULVIS ET UMBRA 

When thou art lying under ground, 
Beyond the reach of sight and sound, 
The world will still go round and round; 

But, troubled not by fool or wise, 
Unheeding all beneath the skies. 
Shadow and dust will thee suffice. 

The youth and maid, who stroll above. 
Will dream their dream, and deem it love; 
But thee, beneath, it will not move. 

With all the art that song employs 
The birds will celebrate their joys. 
But not for thee their amorous noise. 

Without the least concern of thine 
Will June bestow her days divine, 
October spill celestial wine. 

And Nature change, with changed dress. 
From loveliness to loveliness 
That nevermore will thee impress. 

166 



PULVIS ET UMBRA 

However dear thy fame to thee. 
With generations soon to be 
It will not be a memory. 

Though thou wast beautiful or brave. 
Nor love or gratitude will save 
Thy desolate, defenseless grave. 

The epitaph, unread, unknown, 
Will presently be overgrown 
With lichens on the leaning stone; 

The leaning stone will break in twain 
And Nature, every hindrance vain, 
Her old dominion will retain; 

For here will summer's verdure grow, 
And Winter, as the ages flow. 
Fold and unfold his sheets of snow; 

While, o'er thy dust as days go on. 
Will deepen, until days are done, 
The shadow of oblivion. 



167 



WALTER 

The changing moon will circle through the skies. 
The constellation's host decline and rise, 
The twilights bring the hues of paradise 

Though thou art gone 

From this celestial zone. 

The sun will enter every secret place, 

His radiance every mote of darkness chase. 

His domination every realm embrace, 

But thou art gone 

And vacant is thy throne. 

The lark will soar and sing in heaven's high dome. 
The homesick dove back to her window come. 
The shepherd dog drive the mute cattle home. 

Yet thou art gone 

And all thy work is done. 

The earth will journey eastward as before, 
The ocean ebb and flow with ceaseless pour. 
But I, great heart, deplore thee more and more, 

For thou art gone 

And like thee there is none. 

168 



WALTER 

Alas, for constancy's devoted years ! 
Alas, for pleasure's aftermath of fears ! 
Alas, for love's inheritance of tears ! 

Yes, thou art gone 

And I am left alone. 



169 



THE CHILD-ANGEL'S Ri?rURN 

A child-angel came down from her home in high heaven 
To the home she had left on the earth far away; 

She had dwelt for a year, or it might be for seven. 
Where a day is a year and a year is a day. 

But her wish was so great to return to her mother, 
To her sister and father, and see how they were, , 

In the home she still loved, though she now had another. 
She would travel to them since they came not to her. 

Though the distance was great, and she came unat- 
tended. 
So direct was her course, and so rapid her flight, ^ 
That before she was conscious, her journey was ended. 
And the scene of her earth-life had gladdened her 
sight. 

What emotions were hers as she passed through the 
portal 

Of the little brown cottage with guardian trees! 
By these she was sheltered in the days she was mortal. 

Who now, an immortal, revisited these. 

170 



THE CHILD-ANGEL'S RETURN 

The home-picture was warm, though a cold wind was 
blowing; 

In the old easy-chair in the favorite place, 
Her pale, sorrowful mother sat silently sewing, 

And the fireside's effulgence transfigured her face. 

They had made little change since the day she departed; 

Her own picture was there, her wee clock on its shelf; 
The mirror, the sofa, the books, and — she started, 

For one place was vacant, she had filled it herself 

While her father sat pensive, his thoughts not revealing. 
And her sister was soothing her cat where it lay, 

Down her mother's sad face was a shining tear stealing, 
And her longing was mighty to steal it away. 

But at this tender moment the silence was broken. 

For her mother's deep sigh had fast followed her tear, 
And in accents of grief were these yearning words 
spoken : 
"Oh, how much would I give could my Edith be 
here!" 

" Could she only return from her mansion in heaven. 
Just to tell me again that her love is the same. 

Could she say that each petulant word was forgiven, 
I would ask for no more till eternity came. " 

171 



THE CHILD-ANGEL'S RETURN 

And her father replied, from his seat by the table, 
Without lifting his eyes as he shaded his brow: 

"Dearest heart, do you know I believe she is able? 
Although we see her not, the child may be here now." 

Not a word more was said, but the mother was weeping, 
While the father was musing again as before, 

And the sister was rocking, the pet cat was sleeping. 
And her clock ticked its time on its shelf by the door. 

Yet the child-angel grieved not, beholding this sorrow, 
For her pleasure had come after bitterest pain. 

And their gladness would be all the greater tomorrow. 
As the sunlight is brightest that follows the rain. 

Then she breathed an adieu to her parents and sister, 
She returned as she came and rejoined the bright 
throng. 
With these words on her lips, as a child-angel kissed 
her, 
"At the longest, my dear ones, it cannot be long." 



172 



TO AN OLD SERMON 

From the text "What meanest thou, O sleeper?"— Jonah 1:6. 

Old Sermon, ere I relegate 
Thy ancient dullness to my grate, 
I'll scan again the yellow pages 
That tell our services and wages. 

Places and dates inscribed I find. 
That bring events and scenes to mind. 
And here to see thy martyrdom 
The living and the dead may come. 

The audience that heard thee first 
My memory has not treated worst. 
Perhaps because its frown was feared. 
And by its smiles my heart was cheered. 

For, Sermon old, we did not spare 
The sinners we confronted there. 
And they who praised (forgiving souls) 
^ere those we'd hauled across the coals. 

173 



TO AN OLD SERMON 

But, later on, without mistake. 
Since time revenge's thirst doth slake. 
Another people served us right, 
And gave us our quietus quite. 

It was a winter afternoon. 

But might have been a day in June- 

Or August even, for the air 

Of ancient seasons lingered there. 

The windows were as tightly shut 
As though secured by bolt and nut, 
The place from oxygen as free 
As dungeon of the east may be. 

We pictured Jonah's dismal fate, 
And penitence that comes too late 
To saints now sent to sinners dead 
Who travel their own way instead. 

We showed the godly's danger who 
Proclaim the right they fail to do. 
Whether the sacred desk they smite 
Or slumber when they ought to fight. 

'T was all in vain; the sound that came 
Could not deserve repentance' name; 
It was the language of repose 
Whose vocal organ is the nose. 

174 



TO AN OLD SERMON 

"What meanest thou, O sleeper?" hailed 
The seaman, and the prophet wailed; 

"What meanest thou, O sleeper?" we, 
And snoring sounded like the sea. 

And when our climax's height was reached 
And Jonah and the whale were beached, 
The census I was loath to take. 
Discovered only seven awake. 

My wrath within me waxing warm, 

I now resolved to break the charm. 

To bring their judgment to their ears. 

And reach our hearers (?) through their fears. 

The pulpit was the ancient kind 
By Puritanic art designed; 
And, like a cloudlet in the sky. 
Or dizzy crag, it hung on high. 

A ponderous volume bound in gilt 
Lay on its outer edge a-tilt. 
And thence by gesture not too rough. 
With heavenward gaze I launched it off. 

Down went the tome with sudden spang ! 
With sudden roar the rafters rang. 
"What, sleeping sinner, aileth thee?" 
With sudden application, we. 

175 



TO AN OLD SERMON 

Old Sermon, we remember well 
The afternoon this all befell. 
Great was the consternation there. 
And loud the buzz that filled the air. 

As when, with summer languor fed. 
One thinks perchance the bees are dead. 
And overturns the drowsy hive 
To find them very much alive. 

Our anti-climax came as well, 
And words of mine would fail to tell 
The deacons' wrath, the sexton's vow, 
The all but universal row. 

The action was a master stroke 
That our necks, not the others' broke; 
And, therefore, on the shelf today 
We moulder in deserved decay. 

We moulder now, though presently 
The flames will work a change in thee; 
But heaven forbid, what none can tell. 
That I should meet the flame as well. 

Moral 
The preacher is to preach the word; 
To wear, but not to wield the sword; 
To watch the congregation's pulse; 
To seek, but not to force results. 

176 



GRANT 

Hail, honored hero of the East and West ! 

Of stubborn purpose and of single heart ! 

Soul for thy country's service set apart ! 
Today by Freedom's lips thy name is blessed : 
Today thou art a grateful nation's guest: 

Today that single syllable, thy name. 

Is written in our hearts : this is thy fame. 
We bid thee welcome to thy well-earned rest. 
We praise the Providence that thee sustained; 

That gave thee counsel when man's counsel failed; 
That sheltered thee where murderous missiles rained. 

And shielded thee when violence assailed. 
Our greatest soldier, yet with least pretence; 
Simple in speech, sublime in common-sense. 



177 



AN EASTER VISION 

On Easter morn I had a wondrous vision, 

And sounds I heard and sights beheld Elysian. 

A-straying far beyond reclaim or pity, 

Me thought I came to the celestial city; 

I entered by an ever-open gateway. 

By sights and sounds to be bewildered straightway; 

And fell exhausted like a breaking billow, 

The sky my roof, the floor of glass my pillow. 

While high above me in a golden tower 

A silver chime was pealing out the hour. 

I ne'er had listened to such tuneful ringing; 

'T was like a choir of holy angels singing; 

And as it rang no sadness did it borrow, 

But lifted off my soul its load of sorrow; 

It did not ring of sin and condemnation. 

It rang of holiness and free salvation; 

To me, beneath, a breathless, hated dreamer. 

It rang the deathless love of the Redeemer; 

Again, 't was like a tide of glory flowing. 

Forever there, and yet forever going. 

And where I lay, deprived of speech and motion, 

178 



AN EASTER VISION 

'T was rolling over like a rolling ocean; 
Not cold and deathlike as a mundane billow, 
But warm with life, and toying with my pillow. 

I woke in tears, because without the portal : 
"Alas," I said, "I am again a mortal!" 
Ah me! not yet eternal peace is given; 
We hear not yet the harmony of Heaven; 
A chime of silver in a golden tower 
Rings not today the resurrection hour; 
But in our waking, not our sleeping vision. 
We hear the sounds, and see the sights Elysian. 
In work for Christ we find unfailing pleasure; 
In blameless living lay up heavenly treasure; 
To him who lives, no humblest duty scorning. 
Doth every sunrise bring an Easter morning. 



179 



AT THE ENTRANCE TO THE 
WELLESLEY COLLEGE 
GROUNDS 

Pause passer, and thy thoughts a moment bend 
To contemplation of this dreamy scene : 
The gateless portal here, the leafy screen 

Beyond, the avenue that finds an end 

In seeming, where the arching branches lend' 
An invitation to this fair demesne. 
This unlost Paradise, whose peace serene 

Means heaven's o'erflow and man his maker's friend. 

Yet stay thy foot! Wisdom and Prudence stand 
The unseen guardian of an unseen gate. 

With smile of welcome and extended hand 
For all truth-seekers, come they soon or late; 

But for vain triflers, warning and command. 
As they whose girdles wear the keys of fate. 



,180 



TO THE MEMORY OF AN OLD MAN 

(H. R) 

And Is he gone — the genial, dear old man. 

Whom all his townsmen knew and knew to love; 

Whose simple word another's word outran. 

Whose daily thoughts had long found rest above? 

Long had men missed him from the busy street, 
From hearths and haunts frequented many a year, 

Yet still they said: "Where men and Christians meet 
His place is vacant, but his heai;t is here. " 

And has he passed beyond our words and ways. 
Whose life was humble as his faith sublime; 

Whose sunken eyes, with serious, far-off gaze. 
Saw other than the trivial things of time? 

Yes, he is gone; his more than ninety years 
Are numbered with the never-changing past; 

We do not mourn him, Youth claims all our tears; 
We give him joy that Heaven is reached at last; 

181 



TO THE MEMORY OF AN OLD MAN 

Where age no more the senses can destroy. 
Nor grief pursue, nor calumny assail; 

Where trouble cannot qualify the joy, 
Nor trifles burden, nor desire fail. 

We shrink from an eternity untried. 

But none can for a moment wish him back; 

His faith has changed to vision; doubt has died; 
The life eternal can no blessing lack. 

Who would not choose a lowly life like his. 
So sweet an odor to embalm his name. 

In place of gifts that a high purpose miss. 
And honor that the good but reckon shame? 

Who would not feel, when he lies down to die. 
And earthly treasures drop from his embrace. 

The mist and darkness from his vision fly. 
And fadeless light illuminate his face? 

What language speaks he now we do not know, 
Nor of his thoughts can comprehend the half, 

But should their current through old channels flow. 
Perhaps he would indite this epitaph; 

"No further strife with ills invincible; 

No more encroachment of decay and rust; 
Earth hath reclaimed this borrowed particle 

Of seldom-noticed, soon-forgotten dust;" 

182 



TO THE MEMORY OF AN OLD MAN 

"No longer exiled from its native skies. 
And freed forever from its earthly clod. 

The spirit, in the Heavenly Paradise, 
Is re-united to its Father — God. " 



183 



FORECAST 

Take back, take back the harsh word now; 

Consider it unspoken; 
Break, break, though late, the angry vow 

That better far were broken. 

The stream of death will bear away 

The object of thy passion; 
Oh, then obliterate today 

The thought of his transgression. 

Forget the little ill, revealed 
As though by haters intention; 

Remember all the good, concealed 
As though by love's invention. 

The hour may come when thou wilt stand 

Unsheltered and unshriven; 
Forgiveness' price is in thy hand. 

Today let it be given. 

With hatred in the heart at last 

Bethink thee of his terror 
Whose aUenated gaze were cast 

On love's eternal mirror. 

184 



FORECAST 

Thou might'st endure the sight of woe 
The scoffing — the derision — 

But where thou dost expect to go 
How couldst thou bear the vision? 



185 



THE OLD WORLDLING 

He shambles by each sunny afternoon; 

His portly form is shrunken as a spectre; 
His face is vacant as the morning moon; 

Quaffed is his nectar. 

Out of his eyes the dancing light is gone; 

Out of his blood the wanton warmth that thrilled it; 
Out of his air the charm that conquests won 

When fancy willed it. 

Proud was his port and tasty his array; 

His days and nights o'erflowed with song and 
laughter; 
He never dreamed that these would pass away 

And this come after. 



He courted pleasure and secured it still; 

He asked for friends, and loves, and these were given ; 
He craved all worldly good and had his fill; 

He sought not Heaven. 

186 



THE OLD WORLDLING 

His friends have vanished never to return; 

His pleasures, treasures, all his hearths desire; 
His passions only in their embers burn; 

Mute is his lyre. 

For him the even time has brought no light; 

Its sighing breezes pity as they kiss him; 
The dark will bear him to the wastes of night; 

Earth will not miss him. 

Alas, the life that has no upward look, 
No sacrifice of self, no high endeavor; 

Its taste becoming, like the seer's book, 
Bitter forever! 



187 



TO A WANDERER 

Light was the lilt of your frolicsome feet, 
Winsome your grace as a banner unfurled; 

Home gave you happiness sweet and complete; 
Why were you charmed by the siren-voiced world? 

Fortune was bountiful though she was blind; 

Youth was like morning with dew drops impearled; 
Love was beneficent; What do you find 

Now, in a portionless, pitiless world? 

Envy has eyed you with lowering sneer; 

Pity's proud lip in contempt has been curled; 
Prudence has called you in tremulous fear — 

Fear of a dissolute, desolate world. 

Autumn's gray mists have come down on your track; 

Summer's dead memories round it are swirled; 
Who is beside you to pilot you back — 

Back from the wildering waste of the world? 

Oh for the lilt of the frolicsome feet ! 

Oh for the grace like a banner unfurled! 
Oh for the happiness, sweet and complete! 

Ah for the charm and the cheat of the world ! 

188 



TO A CHILD IN HEAVEN 

How dost thou fare in the high, silent skies? 

Dost never weary of unfading day? 

Have Time's divisions been all swept away, 
And dost thou reckon by eternities? 
Art young or old, dear face; childlike or wise? 

Hast gazed on those who have been blessed for aye? 

Art satisfied with Heaven as well as they? 
Or dost thou long for us in Paradise? 
Hath God wiped all thy tears away, my child? 

Of thy sharp suffering lingereth no trace? 
Earth-separation pangs hath Heaven beguiled? 

Clingeth no clay-touch to celestial grace? 

Ah! me, thy being how can mine embrace 
Since thou art there and I to earth exiled? 



189 



THE MANY MANSIONS 

My Father's house, — where doth it stand? 

Its many mansions, — where are they? 
Sometimes I deem them close at hand. 

And sometimes far away. 

As I behold from night to night 

The lamps that He hath lit on high. 

Whose myriads overwhelm my sight, 
"My Father's house!" I cry. 

The particles of cosmic dust 

That day conceals and night lays bare. 
These are the mansions of the just 

The Saviour doth prepare. 

Then earth were part of heaven, you say; 

And why not earth, is my reply. 
My Father's house, without decay, — 

A mansion of the sky? 

By day we seem to swing afar 

Beyond the outer bounds of space; 

By night among the stars we are 
In our appointed place. 

190 



THE MANY MANSIONS 

This mansion He will highly prize 
When in all lands He is adored, 

No richer gem adorns the skies 
Than earth to heaven restored. 

The many mansions all belong 

To Thee, my Lord, supreme, divine; 

My Father*s house, yon countless throng, 
The xiniverse is Thine. 



191 



TO A PRESSED FLOWER 

(Found in an old Latin Dictionary) 

Forgotten bloom that years ago was buried, 
But disentombed today beholds the light, 

How many a passenger has Charon ferried 
Since thy departure to the shores of Night. 

No more the charge of the o'er-brooding azure, 
No more the joy of human or of brute, 

Like Ovid banished at a despot's pleasure. 
But, unlike his, thy desolation mute. 

The feet that ran for thee have ceased their running; 

The cheeks that rivalled thee have lost their glow; 
The hand that wrought thy wrong forgot her cunning, 

With the sore sorrow of it, long ago. 

Yet hast thou choice companions, gentle flower, 
Cut off like thee, and sepulchered in bloom; 

The Roman language, in its ripened power, 
Is lying, trance-like, in this storied gloom. 

192 



TO A PRESSED FLOWER 

Garlands of Horace's measures hang around thee; 

The verse of Virgil twines about thy bier; 
The spell of Livy's history hath bound thee; 

The majesty of Cicero is here. 

No voice forbad thy taking off untimely, 
Fate cancels not nor alters his decrees; 

Yet who denies that one has fared sublimely 
Who shares the kingly company of these? 

As from the cities sinking in their glory, 
But rising, life-like, after many a day. 

There comes the lesson from thy silent story 
That death not causes but prevents decay. 

A truth divine thy petals are repeating. 
The formula for crazed ambition's cure — 

The lives we save and guard are only fleeting, 
The lives we sacrifice alone endure. 

Thy comrade-blossoms soon were sere and rotten; 

They perished when the frosts of autumn fell; 
Mourned for a day and then for aye forgotten; 

But thou remainest still their tale to tell. 

Flower, farewell! Thy tints again inurning, 
I leave thee with thy bright, immortal peers; 

Thou to their limbo passionless returning, 
I to a busy world of joy and tears. 

193 



HIS MONUMENT 

Abiding as the pyramids it stands — 

His monument that does not bear his name, 
This loftier Pharos Ht with learning's flame 

Whose radiance gladdens earth's remotest lands. 

It was not builded with reluctant hands 
To publish to mankind a despot's fame 
And taunt the children with their father's shame. 

So vast a labor only love commands. 

Where many fail in life wouldst thou succeed 
Superior to hate or accident? 

Efface thyself when thou hast done thy deed; 
Let the delight of doing, thee content. 

Not thee but thine the generations' need; 
Their betterment becomes thy monument. 



IH 



FINIS 

The end at last! The journey is completed; 

The fear of failure and its dread were vain; 
Doubt has gone by; despair has been defeated; 

And pleasure presently will vanquish pain. 

The early radiance, the east adorning. 
With gold and crimson glorified the sky. 

And told the coming of a grander morning. 
The longing gaze to greet and satisfy. 

And it is here. The wealth of Orient splendor 
Lay in the sun and never was withdrawn. 

But, in an effluence divinely tender. 
The latter twilight broadens into dawn. 

Conflict of conflicts that is won by losing ! 

Tie that is strengthened by the severing knife! 
Day that dies not but brightens at its closing! 

Sweet Revelation of the Book of Life. 



195 



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